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Hie  Hour  of  Judgment 


YIOLACWHTTE 


U B RAHY 

OF  THE 

UN  IVLR.5ITY 

OF    ILLINOIS 

from 
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The  Hour  of  Judgment 


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The  Hour  of  Judgment 


VIOLA  C  WHITE 


bTb 


BOSTON 

B.  J.  BRIMMER  COMPANY 

MDCCCCXXIII 


Copyright,  192  3 

B.  J.  Brimmer  Company 

Boston 


Press  of  Goodman  Brothers,  Inc. 
Boston 


i 


To  V.D.S. 

n^HOUGHT  of  my  thought,  and  teacher  of  my  youth , 

Since  the  white,  lyric  time  of  early  day 
The  trampling  years  have  trod  my  field  to  clay, 
And  few  stalks  for  the  harvesting  remain. 
I  would  I  might  have  borne  abundant  grain, — 
Yet  from  the  winnowing  of  this,  I  pray, 
There  come  the  dark  and  bitter  seed  of  truth! 


THE  HOUR  OF  JUDGMENT 

Poems  included  in  this  collection  have  appeared  in  the 
New  York  Call,  Casements,  the  Liberator,  the  Stratford 
Journal,  the  Socialist  Review  and  the  World  Tomorrow. 


CONTENTS 

Introduction 15 

The  Hour  of  Judgment 17 

THE  OLD  ORDER 

Gray  Wolf xi 

Three  Men  and  Three  Fowls 2.2. 

Renegade 2.3 

The  Asylum 14 

The  Wonder-Worker 2.5 

A  Fragmentary  Trial 2.6 

Preparedness 2.7 

The  Conquering  Nation 33 

Pro  Patria 36 

To  Holy  Church  1918  .        .        .     •  .        .        -37 

Atlas 40 

Russia  to  the  Allies 41 

Charity ,        ....  43 

At  the  Sewing  Circle 44 

To  a  Condemned  Man 45 

Life  Divided 47 

To  a  Caged  Bear 48 

Eugene  V.  Debs 49 

The  Angel  of  the  Record 50 

OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

I.  Dialogue  in  Jerusalem 55 

II.    Dialogue  in  Calcutta 62. 

The  Chinese  Dragon  Soliloquizes     ....  69 

THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

The  Russian  Revolution 77 


INTRODUCTION 

AS  a  poet,  Miss  White  has  already  had  impressive  in- 
troduction to  lovers  of  literature,  and  particularly  to 
students  of  contemporary  verse,  through  the  publica- 
tion in  19x1  of  her  volume,  "Horizons/'  as  the  eighth 
number  of  the  Yale  Series  of  Younger  Poets.  The  Series, 
we  are  told,  was  "designed  to  afford  a  publishing  medium 
for  the  work  of  younger  men  and  women  who  have  not 
yet  secured  a  wide  public  recognition;"  and  was  an- 
nounced "to  include  only  such  verse  as  seems  to  give  the 
fairest  promise  for  the  future  of  American  poetry." 
Edited  by  Professor  Charlton  M.  Lewis  and  published  by 
the  Yale  University  Press,  the  books  in  this  Series  have 
taken  high  place  among  the  publications  of  our  day,  and 
have  brought  deserved  distinction  to  their  authors. 
Work  by  any  one  of  this  company  of  singers,  among 
whom  V  ola  C.  White  is  by  no  means  the  least,  is  certain 
now  to  be  recognized  and  received  on  its  merits. 

Another  reason,  therefore,  than  that  of  "introduc- 
tion," dictates  to  me,  as  it  may  have  suggested  to  Miss 
White,  the  writing  of  these  paragraphs.  It  is  hoped,  by 
us  both,  perhaps,  that  another  company  of  readers  than 
that  of  lovers  of  poetry  merely,  may  be  attracted  to 
the  pages  of  this  second  volume.  A  comparison  of  it  with 
its  predecessor,  "Horizons,"  will  show  promptly  what 
I  mean. 

The  earlier  book,  lovely  as  it  is,  is  more  or  less  conven- 
tional. The  subjects  of  the  poems — "Clouds,"  "To  a 
Sea  Gull,"  "Wind  and  Ocean,"  "October,"  "Dande- 
lion," "Past  and  Future,"  "Fairy  Message,"  "Sunday 

in] 


Morning/'  "Child  of  Adam,"  "Ballad,"  "Venice," 
"The  North  Wind,"  etc.,  etc.,  tell  the  story.  There  is 
originality  in  these  pieces,  true  imagination,  much 
beauty,  some  real  experience,  but  it  is  expressed,  both  in 
form  and  content,  safely  inside  the  lines  of  accepted 
tradition.  What  we  have  in  "Horizons"  is  a  highly 
gifted  poet  happily  conscious  of  genius,  trying  out  her 
powers  and  manifesting  interest  in  her  art.  She  does  what 
other  poets  have  done  and  will  always  do — uses  familiar 
materials,  in  not  unfamiliar  ways,  for  the  sheer  joy  of 
the  song  and  of  its  singing. 

To  turn  from  the  first  book  to  its  successor  within  these 
covers  is  to  experience  a  shock.  There  is  almost  nothing 
in  "Horizons"  to  prepare  one  for  what  is  encountered  in 
"The  Hour  of  Judgment" — a  hint,  perhaps  in  "Litany 
of  the  Comfortable"  or  "Concerning  Martyrdom",  but 
a  hint  so  slight  that  it  is  plainly  a  product  of  the  un- 
conscious. In  this  second  book  the  author  is  so  changed 
as  to  be  unrecognizable.  She  bears  the  same  name,  but 
no  other  quality  to  identify  her.  Where  formerly  was 
lightness  and  gaiety,  is  now  deep  and  stern  emotion.  A 
simplicity  almost  terrible  has  crept  into  much  of  the 
work,  varied  at  times  by  a  Dantesque  intensity  and  elab- 
oration which  reveal  depths  too  profound  for  this  young 
poet  yet  to  plumb.  Her  subjects  have  completely 
changed — not  a  single  nature  poem  appears  within  this 
volume!  The  author's  gaze  has  been  altogether  lifted 
from  the  pleasant  things  of  earth.  As  John  in  Patmos  saw 
not  the  surrounding  verge  of  sea  and  sky,  but  only  the 
doom  of  the  City  of  God,  so  Miss  White  looks  over  and 

i  12.} 


beyond  "horizons"  to  the  looming  terror  of  "the  hour  of 
judgment."  Something  has  happened  to  this  poet.  She 
has  been  shaken  to  the  foundations  of  her  being.  Earth- 
quakes have  upheaved  her  soul,  and  shown  her  things 
within  herself  not  seen  or  known  before.  The  result  is 
the  discovery  of  profound  convictions,  the  laying  hold  on 
spiritual  realities  that  lift  the  soul  to  life.  And  the  rec- 
ord are  these  poems  that  burn  like  flame,  and  reveal  like 
flashes  of  lightning. 

What  happened,  of  course,  was  the  World  War.  Read 
these  poems,  and  see  how  the  soul  that  breathed  them 
forth  marched  with  the  procession  of  events  like  a 
"mystic  trumpeter!"  Here,  in  the  opening  pieces,  is  "the 
old  order"  which  stamped  upon  the  single  life  the  sign  of 
the  contagion  with  which  our  western  world  is  sick. 
Then  come  the  War,  America  betrayed,  the  church  traitor 
to  its  Christ,  Debs  in  prison  for  the  nation's  sins,  the 
Russian  Revolution,  the  vision  "out  of  the  East"  of 
Gandhi — phases  of  the  cataclysm  which  shook  the  world. 
Finally,  in  the  superb  lyrical  drama,  "The  Russian  Revo- 
lution," the  vision  in  Russia  of  a  "changing  order" 
which  shall  bring  a  better  world!  Note  the  last  line  on 
the  opening  page: — 

"And  the  old  order  is  dead;" 
Then  the  last  line  on  the  closing  page: — 

"The  new  world  waits  our  hammering;  we  build!" 
So  run  these  poems  the  gamut  of  the  vastest  epoch  in 
human  history. 

This  book  will  be  admired  for  the  poetry  it  contains. 
I  want  it  admired  as  well  for  the  prophecy  it  speaks. 


Must  not  every  great  poet  be  also  a  prophet?  Can  any 
mastery  of  technique  or  magic  of  art  compensate  for  a 
poet's  lack  of  feeling  for  his  age  and  its  travail  for  the 
future?  Is  not  Poe,  for  all  his  art,  inferior  to  Whitman, 
who  had  no  art,  but  throbbed  in  every  spiritual  vein 
with  the  pusle-beat  of  American  democracy?  Are  not 
Wordsworth's  desertion  of  the  revolutionary  spirit,  and 
Shelley's  espousal  of  that  spirit,  a  fitting  measure  of  that 
loftier  range  to  which  the  younger  genius  soared?  It 
seems  to  me  that  "The  Hour  of  Judgment"  marks  a  dis- 
tinct gain  in  literary  power  over  the  earlier  book, 
"Horizons."  But  this  does  not  interest  me  as  compared 
with  its  revelation  of  deepened  and  true  feeling  of  the 
times  in  which  we  live.  The  last  decade  has  been  rich 
in  poetry;  but  little  of  it  has  expressed  other  than  con- 
ventional reaction  to  the  terrific  events  which  have  made 
this  decade  so  momentous.  Perhaps  the  events  have  been 
too  terrific — the  wars  and  revolutions  too  momentous! 
But  some  souls  have  responded  in  inspired  speech,  as 
others  have  responded  in  heroic  action.  And  among  these 
former  is  the  author  of  this  book.  Just  to  note  how  she 
has  sensed  the  significance  of  the  Russian  Revolution,  is 
to  get  the  measure  of  her  spirit,  at  once  poetic  and  pro- 
phetic, and  thus  truly  great!  Miss  White  has  in  this  vol- 
ume revealed,  as  in  a  vision,  the  vast  edifice  of  song 
which  is  some  day  to  rise  as  a  perpetual  memorial  from 
out  the  blasted  foundations  of  our  age;  and,  as  though 
in  pledge  of  the  reality  of  this  vision,  she  has  hewn  her 
own  fair  stones  for  the  rearing  of  the  pile.  Such  work  is 
all  too  frequently  "without  honor."  May  it  not  be  so 
here! 

JOHN  HAYNES  HOLMES 

{14} 


The  Hour  of  Judgment 


The  Hour  of  Judgment 

\?0U  think  that,  clad  in  lightnings  he 

Will  run  on  earth  disastrously , 
That,  seeing  him  shake  on  the  air 
You  will  have  warning  to  prepare? 
No/  He  is  listening  and  low. 
Like  a  ragman  he  must  go 
A  dark  way  full  of  murmurings 
Till  he  hear  the  final  things: — 
The  crying  of  the  hungry  child, 
The  worker,  "I  no  more  believe," 
The  dream  that  shouts  unreconciled, 
Though  cell  or  torment  it  receive, 
Of  what  a  new  dawn  shall  achieve. 
Then  he  nods  his  ponderous  head, — 
And  the  old  order  is  dead. 


The  Old  Order 


Gray  Wolf 


T)RESS  all  your  weight  against  the  door! 

-*-  The  gray  wolf  howls  about. 

Press  all  your  weight  against  the  door, 

With  all  your  weight  to  keep  him  out. 

If  for  an  instant  you  let  go 

What  will  come  in  with  the  snow? 

Woe  to  the  sick,  woe  to  the  old! 

Their  bolts  and  bars  will  never  hold. 

Press  all  your  weight  against  the  door. 

What  do  the  safely  housed  do  more? 


i"j 


Three  Men  and  Three  Fowls 

"^jPHREE  men  gaping  hungrily, 
■*■  Now  the  evening  lights  are  lit, 
In  a  restaurant  window,  see 
Three  fowls,  turning  on  a  spit. 
All  their  hands  will  have  to  pass 
Is  a  little  pane  of  glass.' ' 

"Hold  your  tongue,  my  silly  friend, 
That  will  never  be  the  end. 
Law,  religion,  court  and  mart 
Keep  the  men  and  fowls  apart." 


(2i) 


Renegade 


HpHE  forts  his  warring  manhood  won 
■*-  His  age  abandons,  post  by  post; 
And  inconceivably  a  man 
Is  conquered  by  a  ghost. 


u3i 


The  Asylum 


T  HAVE  never  known  any  peace  here, — I  have  never 
-*-  known  any  peace  day  or  night,  yet  this  is  my  life  and 
I  can  no  longer  imagine  what  life  would  be  without  its 
walls  or  otherwise.  There  are  too  many  words.  They 
have  given  us  organ  music,  but  in  the  pauses  there  is 
always  someone  raving.  They  have  given  us  ordered 
ways  and  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  but  they  cannot  give  us 
rest  .  .  . 

When  I  first  waked  to  a  consciousness  that  my  walls 
were  guarded  I  was  young  and  inclined  to  fraternize  with 
my  fellows,  partly  out  of  interest  and  sympathy,  partly 
from  a  conviction  that  my  case  was  different  from  theirs. 
I  thought  that  I  was  placed  here  for  the  purpose  of  ob- 
serving them.  I  recollect  strolling  from  cell  to  cell  to 
investigate  and  comprehend  every  point  of  view.  Many 
were  sick  with  the  delusion  of  grandeur,  many  with  the 
delusion  of  wrong.  Not  a  few, — and  from  these  I  noted 
that  the  guards  seldom  turned  their  eyes, — had  dis- 
covered the  only  way  by  which  their  oppressed  com- 
panions might  be  delivered,  and  were  undergoing  for  the 
sake  of  truth  martyrdoms  inconceivably  solitary. 

There  are  endless  corridors,  there  are  endless  cells  where 
the  feeble-minded  lead  their  acquiescent  existence. 

All  that  we  seek  is  rest,  but  we  cannot  even  understand 
one  another's  insecurity.  We  have  been  assigned  to 
separate  rooms. 


(Mi 


The  Wonder- Worker 

ALAS,  Janiculus!  I  have  travelled  far.  Heaven,  or 
*-  *■  the  Devil, — for  the  sacred  voice  of  the  people  is 
divided  on  the  subject, — has  abundantly  blessed  my 
works.  I  have  given  sight  to  the  blind.  He  has  gazed 
upon  a  barren  hillside  and  a  flea-bitten  cur  till  he  died. 
I  have  given  speech  to  the  dumb,  that  he  may  revile  his 
neighbor  fluently  as  those  that  have  always  tongues.  I 
have  given  power  to  men  with  iron  weapons  that  they 
might  walk  upon  water,  for  matter  cannot  gainsay 
immortal  spirit;  arrived  at  the  other  side  they  have 
started  in  to  murder  the  inhabitants.  He  whom  I  deliv- 
ered from  a  wasting  sickness  became  again  the  intolerable 
nuisance  of  the  village,  with  one  more  tale  to  relate  from 
sunrise  to  sundown.  One  I  restored  to  life  at  his  mother's 
prayer  (a  mother,  I  suppose,  would  weep  over  any  sort 
of  son  if  he  were  dead),  swathed  in  habiliments  of  another 
citizenship,  returned  to  the  swilling  and  the  wastry, 
knowing  nought  of  the  vision  of  eternity  save  an  un- 
pleasing  experience  well  ended. 

I  hear  the  mob  like  an  army  of  locusts  on  the  wing. 


UjJ 


A  Fragmentary  Trail 


r  TRAILED  on  steppes  and  wildernesses  hoary 
•**     The  sower  and  the  reaper  as  they  passed, 
Controlling  Nature.     In  the  epic  story 
Of  mine  and  lumber-camp  and  furnace-blast 
I  saw  the  work  take  power  and  take  glory 
From  him  that  made  it,  silent  to  the  last. 
I  saw  the  veiled  god  grope  through  his  creation. 


U6J 


Preparedness 

(New  Year's  Eve,  191 6) 

HP  HE  unregarded  nights  show  forth  a  sign. 
-*-  This  night  are  judged  the  unregarded  nights 
That  passed  in  sleep. 
A  careless  people  keep 
With  multitudinous  tumult  and  with  wine 
Their  latest  vigil  for  an  evil  year, 
Blinding  the  eye  with  lights, 
Closing  the  ear, 
Lest  haply  they  should  see  the  truth  or  hear. 

Out  of  the  night,  unsummoned  and  unsought, 

Shaped  on  the  darkness  of  prophetic  thought, 

The  awful  witnesses  are  drawing  near. 

The  army  of  the  dead  advances.     Hurled 

From  clouds  in  ultimate  wreckage  and  in  flame 

They  fall;  from  Baltic  caverns  they  arise, 

The  cold  betrayal  yet  within  their  eyes. 

Earth  swarms  with  ghosts  innumerably  sent 

From  outposts  of  the  world. 

From  the  Masurian  Lakes  and  from  the  Marne 

Driven  and  violent 

They  rise,  from  out  Galicia  and  Louvain 

Advance.     The  Dardanelles  give  up  their  slain, 

And  Verdun  sends  them  forth. 

Asia  and  Africa  offer  sons  to  fall 

In  the  Carpathian  ranges  of  the  north. 

Again  the  Dolomites  reverberate 


Death  of  the  gallant  young,  dying  for  old  men's  hate. 

Behind  them,  grisly  as  from  martyrdom, 

More  solitary  than  the  dead  are,  given 

No  natural  citizenship  in  earth  or  heaven, 

The  armies  of  the  mutilated  come; 

And  women,  like  a  midnight  river-flow 

Around  the  dead,  around  the  wounded,  go, — 

Women  that  gave  to  birth 

Strong  sons,  in  lustihood  to  reap  and  sow 

The  ground's  abundant  mirth, 

Beholding  them  waste  burden  of  waste  earth. 

I  hear  the  unborn  children  of  the  nations 

Fly  in  the  wind,  crying  of  habitations 

Made  desolate,  wailing  their  heritage 

Of  premature  old  age,  disease  and  care, 

In  life  they  sought  not  but  will  have  to  share. 

From  land  and  sea  and  air 

The  witnesses  appear. 

The  night  is  crowded  with  wide-flung  lament. 

Suddenly  bells  ring  clear 

For  the  incoming  year. 

The  ghosts  adown  time's  crumbling  steep  are  sent. 

Earth,  ocean,  sky,  stretch  innocent  and  bare. 

0  were  they  naught  to  ye,  all  ye  that  have  passed  by? 

1  know  not  if  among 

The  revellers,  some  saw  » 

The  darkness  shining  as  the  fearful  light. 
I  saw  and  I  must  speak,  albeit  with  stammering  tongue. 

America,  whose  sculptured  eidolon  of  Liberty 
Guideth  the  ancient  peoples  unto  thee, 


What  mean  the  cannon  thou  hast  set  beside, 

Trained  on  the  adverse  sea? 

Shall  then  the  enginery  of  murder  tell 

A  tale  hospitable 

To  seekers  of  thy  refuge  from  the  tide? 

Dream  not  that  Europe  can  behold  thy  weapon,  wrought 

Of  the  dark  metal  of  her  overthrow 

Without  some  doubtful  thought 

Of  what  thine  armed  benevolence  may  hide. 

Thou  only  canst  set  free 

The  air  from  death,  and  earth's  resounding  coasts, 

And  the  dim  tumult  of  the  tide-swung  ghosts, 

From  fear's  inexorable  prophecy. 

Disarming  utterly 

Thou  shalt  become  invincible  to  lead 

Up  the  stern  heights  of  peace. 

The  nations  call  thee  in  their  utmost  need, 

America, — and  shall  they  call  in  vain? 

There  is  a  stain  of  gold  upon  thy  hand 

More  ineffaceable  than  blood.   Thine  eyes 

Reveal  shrewd  calculation  and  surmise 

Of  little  else  than  self-security. 

Thou  are  not  safe  one  hour!     As  fear  draws  hate 

And  lust,  fulfillment,  though  an  ocean  part, 

The  evidence  of  thine  uncandid  heart, — 

The  iron  trap, — shall  catch  war  soon  or  late. 

Thou  who  hast  seen  Europe  without  surcease 

Yearly  pile  up  her  armament's  increase, 

That  unused  force  defend  her  every  good, 

Beholding  the  fruition  of  her  peace, 

u9} 


Art  thou  preparing  with  deliberate  breath 
The  self-same  tillage  for  thy  field  of  death? 

I  know  not  why  the  dead  of  many  lands 

Are  brought  together  in  one  grave,  unless 

The  mutuality  that  life  denied 

Death  must  of  dark  necessity  express, — 

The  law  of  fellowship  that,  cast  aside 

In  peace,  when  want  has  cried  without  redress, 

Contagion  of  disease  at  length  has  ratified. 

The  law  engraved  on  primal  rock  by  fate 

Man  cannot  alter  nor  equivocate, 

And  when  with  forward  heart  he  has  defied 

The  holier  verities 

Of  fellowship,  the  angel  of  love's  wrath 

Points  back  into  the  path 

With  whirling  scourge  of  death  and  of  disease. 

Such  is  the  law  for  men, 

Nor  yet  for  nations  is  it  otherwise. 

A  righteous  people  makes  a  righteous  state. 

If  we  cannot  apprise 

The  rooted  calm  of  England,  and  the  great 

Ardor  of  France,  that  thought  with  action  blends, 

And  Germany's  titanic  singleness 

Of  will,  delaying  fate, 

Making  them  only  source  of  dividends, 

Then  truly  what  futurity  portends 

Is  far  less  perilous 

For  these,  the  much-enduring,  than  for  us. 

It  is  a  condemnation  of  our  peace 

{30} 


That  youth  leaps  into  war  as  to  a  tide 

Of  cleansing  and  release, 

As  one  from  madness  turns  to  suicide. 

There  is  a  peace  more  challenging  than  death, 

Peace  without  respite  and  without  retreat, 

Stern  peace,  that  harrieth 

The  Beast,  to  drive  him  out  of  every  street, 

Within  the  land's  recesses  making  fast 

The  linkage  of  the  new  state  with  the  past, 

Until  one  hour,  consummately  sweet, 

Unbinds  our  necks  forever  from  the  yoke 

Our  own  hands  forged  in  dream,  or  ever  we  awoke. 

Such  is  the  peace  that  our  sons  must  complete. 

Then  when  thou  art  made  just 

In  every  part,  canst  thou  of  justice  speak, 

O  nation  eloquent  on  others'  sin! 

What  equity  of  law  does  Georgia  seek? 

Is  New  York's  benediction  on  the  meek, 

Or  Colorado  holier  than  Berlin? 

When  thou  hast  made  thee  just 

In  all  thy  dealing,  verily  I  trust 

That  at  thy  magnanimity  will  rise 

High-heartedness  in  others;  yet  if  fate 

Accomplish  otherwise, 

If  plotted  baseness  of  another  state 

Be  turned  on  thee,  my  country,  this  I  know, — 

(History,  fed  on  many-rivered  tears 

And  witnesser  of  many-altared  woe, 

Cassandra  that  no  living  nation  hears, 

Has  spoken  so): 


Force  never  conquered  force, 

War  never  ended  war. 

It  breeds  the  hate  that  breeds  the  war  again. 

The  righteous  children  of  a  righteous  nation, 

Before  they  let  it  slay  or  violate 

Must  choose  to  suffer  death  or  violation. 

A  nation  cannot  live  in  boundaries  nor  swords. 
Within  the  dark  and  boundless  hearts  of  men 
It  is  a  trumpet  blast  and  a  desire, 
An  inextinguishable  beacon-fire. 
Poland  and  Belgium  live;  Jerusalem, 
Time's  holocaust  that  folds  eternity, 
Adown  steep  lightning  of  the  morning  star 
Looks  on  the  blown  dust  of  her  conquerors. 

The  freedom  that  I  supplicate  for  thee, 

America,  is  neither  ringed  with  swords, 

Nor  portioned  by  war  lords. 

She  moves, — a  flying  light  proclaimed  where  she  is  not,- 

Above  disastrous  peaks  and  cities  where 

Necessity  is  linked  with  ardent  thought. 

Fire  and  cross  prepare  for  her  the  throne 

That  she  ascends  alone, — 

The  accepted  and  incarnadined  sign 

Of  right  divine. 

She  holds  the  domination  of  a  land 

That  force  cannot  protect  nor  desecrate. 

I  charge  thee  that  she  stand  within  thy  gate 

Defended  by  the  torch  within  her  hand, 

America, — it  is  not  yet  too  late! 

{3U 


The  Conquering  Nation 

(A  Vision  of  War  Overcome) 

T  KNOW  not  where  their  onward  march  is  stayed 
-*-  On  burning  mountain  or  prophetic  cloud. 
I  only  know  that  when  War  cried  aloud, — 
The  idol  crafty-mouthed,  whose  bidding  made 
Art,  science,  statecraft,  press,  religion,  crowd 
About  his  altar,  whereupon  they  laid, 
With  genuflection  reverent  and  proud, 
Youth's  entrails  ever  dripping  as  they  prayed, 
When  other  nations  to  his  terror  bowed, 
War  called  this  nation, — and  it  disobeyed. 

On  every  side  the  night  became  a  wound 

That  gaped  incurably,  the  day  grew  dense 

With  the  earth-shaking  anguish  of  suspense, 

Save  here,  where  rose  the  customary  sound 

Of  scythe  in  standing  grain,  of  diligence 

In  home  and  shop  and  ordered  plot  of  ground. 

No  worker  made  munitions  for  defence, 

No  profiteer  with  blood-stained  "honor"  crowned 

The  machinations  of  his  veiled  offence. 

They  lived,  they  worked  in  steadfastness  profound. 

The  neighbors'  children  with  their  gathered  food 

They  fed;  they  nursed  the  ruined  and  the  maimed; 

And  when,  with  lies  of  overlords  inflamed, 

A  hostile  army  poured  its  multitude 

Past  their  frontier,  priest,  leader,  sage,  proclaimed 

{33} 


The  glory  of  unyielding  fortitude. 

They  had  no  need;  the  people's  own  heart  framed 

What  law  the  nation  lived  by.     They  pursued, 

Unto  a  goal  derided  and  defamed, 

The  pillar  of  immortal  light  they  viewed. 

The  invaders  issued  insolent  command. 

No  citizen  obeyed.     In  vain  they  tried 

To  force  their  will,  by  quietness  defied. 

They  turned  and  wrecked  their  vengeance  on  the  land, 

On  field  and  home,  on  well  and  orchard-side, 

On  priest  and  peasant.     Seeing  men  withstand 

Like  gods  who  died,  knowing  for  what  they  died, 

Without  a  curse,  without  a  sword  in  hand, 

The  ranks  began  to  murmur  and  divide. 

Question  arose,  and  clamorous  demand. 

For  want  of  fuel  hatred  flickered  out. 
The  hatred  that  had  been  on  falsehood  fed 
Burned  out,  and  only  shame  burned  on  instead. 
Where  was  the  foe  to  put  to  sudden  rout, 
Armed  to  the  teeth?    The  charges  to  be  led? 
The  deadly  ambush  they  were  told  about? 
These  people,  friends  of  mankind,  had  not  shed 
Blood,  even  of  their  invaders.     Lies  throughout, 
Their  country's  own  lies  led  them  here,  to  spread 
On  summer  fields  like  pestilence  or  drought. 

The  glory  drought  or  pestilence  might  bring 
Was  all  the  glory  that  they  stood  to  gain, — 
The  tears  of  women,  labor  rendered  vain, 

{34} 


And  harmless  folk  on  waste  land  perishing. 
So  far  the  expedition's  fruit  was  plain, — 
And  how  about  that  dimly  flapping  thing, 
The  rumored  purpose  back  of  the  campaign, — 
Powers  for  oil  and  iron  hankering? 
Against  a  war  no  nation  dared  explain 
The  soldiers  rose,  resentful,  murmuring. 

They  overbore  their  officers.     They  pushed 

Beyond  the  frontier.     Mutinous  they  went 

Back  to  the  land  that  poured  them  forth,  to  vent 

Their  wrath  upon  their  overlords.     They  rushed 

With  weapons  yet  in  hand  to  parliament, 

Where  for  a  space  the  humming  hive  grew  hushed 

For  fear  of  deeds  without  a  precedent. 

They  took  possession.     At  one  stroke  they  brushed 

Webs  of  intrigue  aside.     With  sure  intent 

The  order  of  world  empery  they  crushed. 

Their  nation  left  the  war.     It  disarrayed 
Itself  of  victory  at  victory's  height. 
Earth's  patient  peoples  out  of  weary  night 
Rose,  flocking  to  the  standard  here  displayed. 
The  people's  will,  that  bade  the  earth  unite 
And  left  the  lords  without  dominion,  made 
Peace  upon  earth  in  majesty  and  might. 
They  were  the  conquerors  who,  unafraid, 
Beyond  their  graves  pursued  immortal  light. 
I  know  not  where  their  onward  march  is  stayed. 


135} 


Pro  Patria 

A  BOMB  that  crashes   through  a  house  on  sleeping 
**■  *-  children. 

A  man  that,  winning  friendship  of  another, 
Worms  out  his  secret,  only  to  betray. 
A  liner  submarined,  the  life-boat  tossed 
All  night  on  winter  sea.     A  rotting  mound 
Where  grain  was  growing,  where  a  woman,  crazed, 
Wandering  past,  cries  out,  "A  jolly  war!" 
Earth's  quiet  folk,  made  venomous  with  hate, 
Gloating  at  ruined  cities  and  maimed  boys, 
Standing  upon  irreparable  loss, 
To  shout  of  victory. 


{36} 


To  Holy  Church,  191 8 

(This  is  retained  as  a  specimen  of  wartime  animosity.  Its  condemnation 
of  the  Church  is  as  bitter  as  the  Church's  condemnation  of  its  enemies. 

V.C.W.). 

^pRAITOR  that  with  a  kiss  unfalteringly 
■*-  Betrayest  thy  Lord  throughout  the  stricken  years, 
With  eloquence  and  solemn  litany 
Still  offering  to  the  nations  blood  and  tears, 
Bearing  thy  puny  gift  of  hate  to  blend 
With  Europe's  madness,  as  in  jungles,  when 
The  lions  locked  in  lethal  strife  contend, 
The  jackal  howls  in  chorus  from  the  fen; 
Grave-digger  for  ten  millions  of  young  men, 
Thine  own  grave  thou  preparest  at  the  last, 
Inexorably  deep,  for  thee  alone! 
With  malediction  thou  hast  made  it  fast, 
With  unforgiveness  set  the  final  stone. 
Sleep  thy  last  sleep  therein!     I  wish  thee  nought 
Of  dream  more  evil  than  thy  hands  have  wrought! 

Lie  down!     Behold  from  the  corrupting  tomb 

The  generations  of  thy  flock  go  by, 

Thy  bowed  and  nameless  worshippers,  with  doom 

Of  ghostly  fear  and  mortal  misery, — 

The  Negro  fixed  in  fetters  at  thy  word, 

The  children  out  of  factory  and  mine 

Who  cried  until  thy  ministers  were  stirred 

To  seal  their  servitude  with  speech  divine, 

The  silent  women  rendered  by  thy  sign 

Subservient  forever  to  man's  lust 

{37} 


Through  magic  of  Hebraic  legend  old, 

The  peasants  that  uprising  put  their  trust 

In  Reformation,  back  to  bondage  sold 

When  Luther  urged  the  princes'  whips  to  smite 

And  drowned  in  blood  the  slowly  dawning  light. 

These  are  thy  faithful  ones;  and  now  behold 
The  enemies  commended  to  thy  care. 
From  Ferrer's  cell  in  Barcelona's  hold 
To  Bruno's  field  of  burning,  how  the  air 
Reeks  of  the  myriad  torment  thou  hast  given 
To  saint  and  scholar,  heretic  and  seer! 
Wherever  Science  on  the  earth  has  striven 
To  send  beyond  the  farthest  known  frontier 
The  prairie  wagons  of  the  pioneer 
Stark  spectres  from  thy  ruined  hearth  recite 
The  ancient  curse;  and  if  at  length  mankind 
Receive  the  truth  against  thy  will,  despite 
The  nets  eternal  thou  hast  made  to  bind, 
Thou  claimest  it,  when  centuries  are  spent, — 
And  seekest  reward  for  thine  enlightenment. 

Stay  of  the  rich  and  tamer  of  the  poor, 
Fed  by  the  vultures  from  the  battle-surge 
That  bear  thee  meat  therefrom,  thou  shalt  endure 
No  longer!     Look,  thou  standest  on  the  verge 
Of  thine  own  grave.     Lie  down  therein  and  sleep, 
Thine  allies  go  with  thee, — fear,  slavery, 
Witchcraft  and  holocaust  of  nations.     Deep 
As  hell  the  staging  of  that  dream  shall  be. 

{33} 


And  after  it  may  darkness  utterly 
Encompass  thee,  the  darkness  thou  hast  made 
The  beacon  of  the  world;  deep  underground 
With  stone  and  dripping  water  be  thou  laid. 
Above  thy  sleep  the  victory  shall  sound, 
The  tumult  of  another  era's  birth. 
Then  rise  up  if  thou  canst,  and  save  the  earth! 


{39 1 


Atlas 


AGE  after  age  the  Titan  held, 
-^  *■  Through  blinding  snow  and  thunder-wrack, 
Temple  and  forest,  field  and  mine. 
He  held  the  earth  upon  his  back. 

Earth's  people  of  importance  came. 

They  peered  sagacious  o'er  the  rim 
Where  through  the  shadow  Atlas  loomed, 

To  see  what  could  be  done  for  him. 

One  said,  "The  man  should  stand  erect, 
And  view  the  stars  with  lifted  head." 

"How  can  he  stand  erect,  when  earth 
Is  on  his  back?"  another  said. 

"His  hours  are  profitless  and  long. 

He  ought  to  have  a  book  down  there," 
One  argued.     "If  he  moves  his  hand 

To  take  a  book,  can  you  declare 

Where  earth  will  drop?"  a  fourth  replied. 

"This  is  no  tale  of  fays  and  elves. 
If  earth  drops,  gentlemen,  we  drop, 

For  we  are  on  the  earth  ourselves." 

They  ceased.     Portentous  on  their  ears 
As  a  world's  death,  as  a  world's  birth, 

Up  the  steep  dark  the  Titan  spoke: — 
"And  shall  I  always  hold  the  earth?" 

{40} 


Russia  to  the  Allies,  191 8 


"\7"OU  that  allowed  the  crumbling  Tsardom  room, 
"7  Year  after  year  that  saw  my  exiles  tread 
By  tens  of  thousands  to  their  living  tomb 

In  the  Siberian  waste,  and  no  word  said, 
What  mighty  need  has  brought  your  armies  now? 

You  that  beheld  my  surging  crowds  lack  food, 
My  peasants'  dream  of  liberty  turn  gall 

And  wormwood  of  another  servitude, 
Yet  sate  not  in  the  judgment-seat  at  all, 

What  mighty  need  has  brought  your  armies  now? 

You  that  have  seen  the  blood  upon  the  snow 
Of  student  and  of  worker,  that  have  seen 

Pogrom,  espial,  fraud  and  Cossack-blow 
With  never  a  demand  to  intervene, 

What  mighty  need  had  brought  your  armies  now? 

You  that  afar  off  watched  the  abysmal  fire 

Of  Revolution  roll  on  ended  night, 
Deep  after  deep,  the  people's  dumb  desire, 

And  veiled  your  eyes  from  fierceness  of  the  light, 
What  mighty  need  has  brought  your  armies  now? 

I  cast  the  sword  away.     The  torch  outshone; 

I  lifted  it  against  my  enemy. 
With  the  authoritative  dead  alone 

{40 


I  stood,  the  hour  that  you  abandoned  me. 
What  mighty  need  has  brought  your  armies  now? 

Evangels  of  * 'Democracy,"  that  fly 

To  me,  the  reaper  of  man's  tragic  good, 

Your  driven  cities  left  to  judge  you  by, 
And  all  the  past  you  bore  with  fortitude, 

What  mighty  need  has  brought  your  armies  now? 


U*-) 


Charity 

(Austria,  1919) 

TD IND  on  a  defeated  nation 

7^  Inescapable  starvation. 

Then  rush  in,  see  who  can  be 

Most  helpful  with  humanity. 

It  will  be  plain  to  thinkers  versed 

In  proper  ratiocination 

You  must  not  hesitate  to  take 

The  first  step,  for  the  second's  sake. 

How  can  folk  by  your  care  be  nursed, 

Unless  you  cripple  them  at  first? 


(43  J 


At  the  Sewing  Circle 


"W  SALTER  is  back  from  France,"  said  one, 

*  *    "And  Norman  Price,  and  Lewis  Clem; 
But  as  to  what  they've  seen  or  done, 
You  don't  get  one  word  out  of  them." 
Ane  then  another  raised  her  eyes 
That  beamed  with  kindness  and  surprise. 
"My  Harry's  just  like  that,"  she  said. 
"They're  all  alike, — not  say  a  word." 
And  touching  on  some  other  lad 
Too  inconsiderate  to  tell 
The  entertainment  he  had  had 
With  murder  in  the  bowl  of  hell, 
The  conversation  turned  to  bread. 


1 44} 


To  a  Condemned  Man 

T)EACE  to  you  as  you  pass  from  the  electric  chair! 

■*•  We,  your  old  neighbors,  never  wished  you  harm. 

We  saw  you  hook  black  bass 

Out  of  Sands  Creek,  or  shin  up  chestnut  trees 

To  shake  the  burrs  on  bobbing  heads  below. 

We  never  thought  your  deed  would  bring  the  town 

Into  the  paper  with  the  murder  news. 

We  saw  you  as  we  saw  the  other  boys. 

Where  are  you,  forest  runner?    On  the  lake 
Your  brother,  still  too  young 
For  taunts  of  school  children  to  trouble,  steers 
His  raft  to  port,  the  stump  where  briar  nods. 
Where  are  you,  forest  runner?    Now  some  hand 
Turns  on  the  current  that  cuts  short  your  breath. 

Somehow  you  slipped  past  church  and  school  and  home, 
Past  all  the  reasonable  nets  we  boast, 
A  forest  animal.  We  saw  you,  perched 
Upon  the  trestle  framework  of  the  bridge, 
Laughing,  the  truant  officer's  white  beard 
Perplexed  below.     No  other  dared  climb  there. 
You  knew  and  followed  every  wood  thing's  trail, 
But  what  you  knew  marched  not  with  ordered  ways. 
Murder  with  Burglary, — and  now  the  end. 
I  seem  to  see  you,  caught,  the  worthless  coin 
Yet  in  your  hand,  all  the  place  thundering 
"Escape," — and  then  the  gun,  laid  within  reach.  .  .  . 

t  45  J 


You  took  life  in  hot  blood  and  desperate. 
The  law  takes  yours  deliberately.     Now 
There  is  an  end.     Tomorrow's  train  will  bring 
Up  the  steep  grade  at  noon  into  the  town 
A  body  in  a  box  for  burial, — 
What  they  have  made  of  you. 

Your  soul  be  given  a  look  at  hills  you  loved, 
Remembered  from  your  cell  at  Ossining! 
May  sudden  death  set  free  your  soul  to  run 
As  once  you  ran  bare-footed  through  spring  rain! 
Peace  to  you  as  you  pass  from  the  electric  chair! 
We,  your  old  neighbors,  never  wished  you  harm. 


{46} 


Life  Divided 


T^OR  the  means  to  live, 
-*-     For  the  care-free  hour, 
I  must  bow  my  neck  all  day 
To  Baal's  power, 

With  pale  hundreds  packed 

Like  cattle  in  a  car 
Rush  through  the  infernal  night 

Without  one  star. 

Traitor  to  my  dream, 

With  my  tongue  made  mute, 
By  my  toil  I  must  increase 

Baal's  fruit. 

I  must  take  his  wage 
Till  his  time  be  done, — 

The  bright  penny  in  the  hand, 
The  darkening  sun. 

Day  by  working  day 
With  my  dream  at  strife! 

How  much  longer  shall  I  pay 
Divided  life? 


Uzt 


To  a  Caged  Bear 


"DYES,  to  see  the  bars  of  steel, 
-*-i  Ears,  to  hear  commands  of  men 
Put  you  through  a  trick  or  meal, 

Feet,  to  pace  along  your  den 
And  pace  the  same  way  back  again, 

Strength  within  captivity, 
How  are  you  different  from  me? 

Break  your  bars!     They  will  not  break. 

Obey  or  die, — sole  choice  allowed. 
I  wonder  will  you  ever  make 

A  cheerful  citizen  and  cowed 
In.  your  zoo,  O  fierce,  O  proud? 

Strength  within  captivity, 
How  are  you  different  from  me? 


{48  j 


Eugene  V.  Debs 


TT  7"HEN  the  winds  wake, 
*  "    When  the  floods  start, 

I  think  of  him  who  lives 
In  the  people's  heart. 

He  who  lives  there 

Shall  never  know 
The  outcast  road 

That  exiles  go. 

He  who  lives  there 

Shall  ever  be 
Held  on  that  heart 

As  a  ship  on  the  sea, 

On  its  deep  water 

Brave  and  blest, 
On  its  dark  water 

To  take  his  rest. 

When  the  winds  wake, 
When  the  floods  start, 

I  think  of  him  who  lives 
In  the  people's  heart. 


I  49  I 


The  Angel  of  the  Record 


"HTHERE  is  little  left  to  write  on  the  last  page  of  the 

-*-    nations,"  said  the  Angel  of  the  Pen, 
"Writ  red  with  the  story  of  Europe's  desolations,  and 

the  holocaust  of  marching  men, 
Writ  black  with  betrayal  and  graves  of  little  children, 

and  ghouls  that  go  fully  fed, 
Ghouls  that  go  fed  with  the  gold  of  the  slaughter,  while 

the  workless  hordes  lack  bread. 
There  is  little  left  to  write/ '  said  the  Angel  of  the  Record, 

"ere  the  last  line  be  writ  and  read." 


"I  am  coming  to  the  place  where  my  hand,  suspended, 

waited  for  the  pompous  word 
Of  the  Roman  councillors,  secure  and  splendid,  before  the 

Gothic  tread  was  heard. 
I  am  coming  to  the  place  where  my  hand  was  holden  for 

King  Louis'  jesting,  when 
The  flood  that  he  mocked  was  already  on  the  upland, 

and  feudal  France  was  drowning  then. 
There  is  little  left  to  write,"  said  the  Angel  of  the  Record, 

"ere  I  turn  the  page  again." 


"The  sign  changeth  not  for  the  order  that  is  ending.   An 

ancient  house  it  is, 
Foundations  that  warp  and  are  ever  bending  with  basal 

inequalities, 

{5°  i 


And  the  groan  of  the  poor,  and  the  death  of  prophets, 

and  the  feasting  of  the  few 
Therein, — and  a  fall,  and  a  space  remaining  for  builders 

that  will  build  more  true. 
There  is  little  left  to  write,"  said  the  Angel  of  the  Record. 

"ere  I  turn  the  page  anew!" 


(5*1 


«.  •*' 


Out  of  the  East 


Two  Dialogues 


I.     Dialogue  in  Jerusalem       A.D.      33 
II.     Dialogue  in  Calcutta         A.D.  i^zz 


Dialogue  in  Jerusalem 

Milo,  middle-aged  Roman  official  Time,     A.D.  33 

Gorgias,  young  Greek,  his  secretary 

Critus,  his  son  Place,     Garden  of  a  court 


Critus  (with  a  yawn) 

Yaar,  what  a  town  to  be  in, — dysentery, 

Ambush,  fleas,  sunstroke!    Our  reports  must  make 

A  Roman  convict  thankful  to  be  thrown 

To  lions  in  a  civilized  arena. 

If  they  cure  other  fellows  of  the  itch 

For  foreign  travel  they  do  something,  though. 

Not  a  good  show  nearer  than  Antioch! 

Milo  (absently,  head  bent  over  documents) 

Go  out  and  see  the  temple,  if  you  want 
Excitement.     An  inrush  of  countrymen 
Took  the  court  yesterday  and  hold  it  still. 
The  money-changers  in  a  ring  outside 
Howl  broken-hearted,  and  the  townspeople, 
Remembering  years  of  cheating,  let  them  howl. 
But  if  you  go,  mind  you  go  fully  armed. 

(55) 


Critus 

As  if  I  cared  who  held  the  temple.     Yaar, 
What  difference  does  it  make?    O  fostering  Rome, 
Mother  most  honorable,  queen  of  the  world, 
O  for  a  bath! 

(throws  dice  perfunctorily) 
What  are  you  reading,  Gorgias? 

Gorgias  (looking  up  with  a  smile) 

Of  hoofs  and  horns.     I'm  starting  a  collection 
Of  native  writing, — hoofs  and  monstrous  horns. 

Critus  (sleepily) 

Of  hoofs  and  monstrous  horns, — what  do  they  mean? 

Gorgias  (with  mischief) 

Mother  most  honorable,  queen  of  the  world, 
Fostering  Rome!     Or  sometimes,  if  the  seer 
Varies  the  image,  she  goes  clothed  in  red, 
A  scarlet  strumpet,  with  a  cup  of  blood. 

Critus  (aroused) 

The  deuce!     She  does  indeed!     The  dirty  swine, 
Fd  like  to  cut  their  throats! 

Milo  (looking  up)  It  is  sedition; 

Sedition  beyond  doubt;  but  written  hate 

Can  do  small  harm.     Keep  your  collection,  Gorgias. 

{56} 


If  an  uprising  comes,  the  evidence — 

(A  messenger  comes  in,  whispers  to  Milo.     Exit  messenger.) 

Milo.     Gorgias.     (The  young    Greek    drops    his    reading, 
comes  and  stands  near  Milo.') 

The  leader  of  those  countrymen, 
Those  Galileans  who  have  stormed  the  temple, 
Is  Jesus;  just  consult  your  letters,  see 
If  a  young  Galilean  by  that  name 
Raised  Jairus'  daughter, — or  so  Jairus  wrote. 

Gorgias  (after  opening  a  number  of  scrolls  finds  the  right  one) 
It  is  the  same  name. 

Milo  (resignedly)  Jupiter,  now  what 

Possessed  him  to  come  here  for  suicide? 
Crowds  of  the  poor  and  sick,  lepers  to  cleanse, 
Blockheads  to  educate,  throng  Galilee, 
Enough  for  fifty  years  of  useful  toil, — 
The  Government  would  bless  it, — why  seek  out 
Jerusalem,  who  gives  to  her  mad  prophets 
One  gift  alone  through  myriad  centuries, — 
The  silence  of  the  inevitable  grave? 
His  people  of  importance  solidly 
Opposed  this  man  months  past,  and  yesterday 
The  temple  lawlessness  inflamed  their  hate. 
Passover  seals  his  doom;  at  Passover 

{57} 


Some  desert  spell  transforms  these  tribes  to  wolves. 

There  lies  the  difference,  Gorgias,  between 

A  civilized  faith  and  a  barbarous. 

The  more  a  Roman  has,  the  more  urbane 

And  tolerant  he  grows.     With  natives,  though, 

The  more  they  have,  the  more  wolf-like  they  howl. 

Moreover,  if  his  blood  is  what  they  howl  for 

We  have  no  choice  but  to  comply,  nor  risk 

Disorder  for  so  small  a  cause.     I  would, — 

For  he  did  Jairus  a  good  turn, — we  might 

Prolong  his  years, — it  cannot  be;  since  they, 

The  mass  of  his  own  people,  thirst  for  blood, 

The  people's  will  it  is, — their  hides  be  flayed! 

(Enter  a  Rabbi,  a  man  of  impressive  character  and  dignity.  He 
seems  to  have  cast  aside  temporarily  his  hatred  for  Rome 
under  compulsion  of  a  stronger  hatred?) 

Rabbi 

Your  Excellency,  I  bring  for  your  ears 
News  of  uprising.     A  seditionist 
To  whom  the  people  throng,  intends  to  make 
Himself  the  province  ruler! 

Milo  {coldly)  Go  to  Pilate 

About  it,  if  it's  Jesus  that  you  mean. 
The  matter  lies  out  of  my  jurisdiction. 

Gorgias  (leaning  forward  and  speaking  with  ironic  grace) 
I  crave  your  patience,  Rabbi,  as  a  hunter 

{58} 


Of  truth  where  she  lies  hid,  to  lesson  me 
With  what  you  charge  this  man,  since,  even  though 
His  arm  should  uproot  Rome,  I  deem  your  spirit 
Might  summon  strength  to  bear  vicissitude. 

Rabbi  {with  sup 'pressed  fury) 

I  taught  him!     My  hand  guided  the  child's  hand 

In  sacred  characters.     Questions  he  asked 

I  answered,  and  he  sat  wide-eyed.     Behold 

The  fledgling  teaching  parent  birds  to  fly! 

The  same  instruction  whence  he  drew  his  strength 

He  tramples  on,  insults  its  holy  men, 

Calls  in  the  unclean,  bars  out  the  chosen  ones 

Whose  life-long  consecration  builded  truth, 

Profanes  the  temple, — he  has  prophesied 

The  temple,  God's  own  body,  will  be  torn 

Asunder  in  three  days!     Messiah?    Madman! 

(turning  suddenly  to  Milo) 

I  beg,  my  lord,  the  eagle  of  your  power 
To  film  its  eye  for  three  days'  space.     Ourselves 
With  our  own  hands  will  do  God's  holy  will 
And  trap  this  render,  this  blasphemer,  this  — 

Milo  (indifferently) 

In  Pilate's  jurisdiction,  as  before 

I  told  you.     Go.     I  will  not  interfere. 

Do  you  suppose  Rome  has  no  better  use 

1 59} 


For  golden  hours  than  to  inspect  your  broils? 
Make  silence  your  ally, — as  trappers  wont. 

{the  Rabbi  bows  and  goes  out) 

Gorgias  (sighing) 

That  means  they  go  to  snare  him  bestially 

Who  holds  his  own  in  open  dialectic 

Most  brave.     I  heard  him  with  the  Saducees, 

Who  learned  from  Greece  there  was  no  resurrection — 

Milo  (heartily) 

I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  Gorgias.    Any  piece 

Of  information  that  we  can  impart 

Is  a  plain  duty.    Keep  your  balance,  lad. 

A  thousand  rot  this  day  of  pestilence 

Round  Carthage,  and  ten  thousand  choke  the  plains 

Of  insurrectionary  Gaul.    Waste  not 

Care  on  one  youth,  who  panted  for  his  death 

When  he  came  hither.   How  should  Rome  be  blamed? 

His  teacher  may  perchance  have  spoken  truth. 

He  may  indeed  be  flaming  against  Rome, 

Poor  wandering  marsh-light,  quenched  before  the 

dawn! 
Our  lists  must  be  checked,  Gorgias.    Herein  lies 
Enough  awry  to  occupy  your  care, — 
Vineyards  of  Engedi  the  hail  has  wrecked, 
The  fruits  that  Kedron  sends  down  scantily, — 
One  must  go  thither  to  inspect  the  tale 
Of  those  reluctant  fruits, — the  timber  meant 

{6oj 


For  Caesarea  still  on  Lebanon 

With  not  a  driver  nor  a  vehicle, — 

And  forests  do  not  move, — the  road  washed  out 

By  freshets  pouring  this  side  Jericho. 

(having  handed  work  over  to  Gorgias  leans  back 

reflectively) 

My  Gorgias,  in  dim  corners  of  the  land 
Where  hate  and  wonder  and  wild  prophecy 
Fail  faster  than  the  winds  that  herald  them, 
Remember  what  abides;  remember  Rome. 
The  generations  look  thereon, — and  die. 
Ten  thousand  sunsets  look  thereon, — and  die. 
With  the  eternal  river  for  her  glass 
She  gazes  on  her  counterpart  alone. 
Keep  your  proportion,  Gorgias.     All  things  die, 
Enthroned  Rome  remains.     What  is  she  not? 
Conqueror  whose  field  of  honor  is  the  earth, 
Harpist  whose  strings  are  old  and  awful  tribes, 
Wizard  whose  touch  turns  chaos  into  law, 
She  rules,  a  living  will,  her  world  of  ghosts. 

Critus  (gazing  through  court,   unimpressed  by  his  fathers 
eloquence) 

Come  over  here,  quick,  Gorgias,  and  look  out! 
Come  see  a  pretty  woman  finally, — 
At  least  what  you  can  see  of  her.     The  veil 
Hides  the  moon's  face, — barbarous  custom  that. 
Hurry  up,  Gorgias,  or  she'll  be  gone! 

{6iJ 


Dialogue  in  Calcutta 

Rawlins,  English  importer 

John  Spark,  young  journalist 

Miss  Edith  Adams,  missionary 

Place,     inner  office  of  importing  house 

Time,     March  n,  1912. 

Rawlins  (at  desk,  glancing  over  newspaper  impatiently). 
H'm.  Nothing  new.  (After  turning  it  inside  out). 
Nothing  happened. 

Spark  (an  alert  young  Englishman,  stands  in  doorway  watch- 
ing Rawlins  dig  his  way  into  cablegrams  and  letters. 
Rawlins  looks  up  as  he  reaches  the  bottom  of  the  pile,  meets 
his  eye.) 
I  got  by  your  office  force  this  far. 

Rawlins  (heartily)  Come  in,  Spark,  (brushing  pile  aside.) 
I  was  wanting  to  talk  to  a  human  being.  Anything 
happened?  I've  been  stuck  here  all  day. 

Spark  (shakes  his  head).  Everything  has  been  so  quiet 
since  the  arrest  it  doesn't  look  natural.  The  people 
seem  sort  of  apathetic.  I  suppose  Gandhi's  saying 
that  the  trial  was  fair  has  something  to  do  with  it. 

Rawlins  (chuckling.)  Almost  thanked  the  court  for  sen- 
tence, eh?  Queer  chap. 

Spark.     Do  you  ever  see  "Young  India,"  Mr.  Rawlins? 

Rawlins.     No,  'course  not. 

{61  j 


Spark.  I  picked  up  a  copy  of  it  not  long  ago.  Mohandas 
Gandhi  wrote  in  that,  "Blood  will  be  shed,  but  let 
it  be  said  that  it  was  our  blood. ' '  Do  you  know,  sir, 
(taking  a  chair  and  resting  elbows  solemnly  on  desk) 
I  think  the  Government  has  made  a  mistake. 

Rawlins.     The  Government?    Oh,  no. 

Spark.  I  mean,  we've  handed  the  non-cooperators  what 
they  were  looking  for, — blood-shed,  suppression 
and  imprisonment.  It's  a  dangerous  movement,  you 
say.  Of  course  it  is,  but  suppose  we'd  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  it;  suppose  we'd  ignored  them  when  they 
were  playing  for  martyrdom.  Wouldn't  that  have 
made  them  look  foolish?  As  is  it,  they're  sweeping 
the  country, — Lahore,  Bombay,  Ahmedabad, — 

Rawlins  (impatiently .)  That's  all  right,  but  you  can't 
ignore  sedition.  Look  at  the  Prince  of  Wales!  That's 
a  fine  way  of  treating  royalty!  They  went  into 
mourning,  the  dirty  beggars!  They  turned  their 
backs;  they  barred  their  doors;  the  Prince  rode 
through  five  miles  of  deserted  street  at  Allababad! 
And  for  no  reason  — 

Spark  (ironically .)  A  mere  matter  of  1800  leaders  arrested 
in  Allababad  alone. 

Rawlins  (continuing).  These  people  aren't  fit  for  self- 
government,  Spark.  They  need  guidance  and  educa- 
tion, as  the  best  of  'em  realize.  Look  at  their  sani- 
tation,— I  mean  their  lack  of  it.     Look  at  their 

{63} 


superstition.  Why,  at  Amritzar,  I'm  told,  they 
thought  Gandhi  would  turn  their  sticks  into  fire- 
arms   

Spark  (with  sudden  gravity).  We've  nothing  to  boast  of 
about  Amritzar.  (A  pause).  The  reason  I  object  to 
their  rebellion,  though, — it's  not  constructive. 
Taking  it  by  and  large,  what  can  they  offer  against 
the  Empire?  Look  at  the  difference  in  vision.  It's 
almost  ludicrous.  They  think  in  terms  of  domestic 
walls,  of  village  life  at  most;  the  Empire  thinks  in 
terms  of  seas,  cities,  trunk  lines  and  continents. 
(musingly) .  I  can  see  them  all  over  the  world, — the  li  ttle 
brown  houses  and  elemental  excitements  and  buzz- 
ing little  religions.  What  are  they  worth  in  them- 
selves? Nothing  whatever.  The  Empire  takes  each 
one,  gives  it  its  place  in  the  whole,  and  from  a  lot 
of  ephemeral  parts  you  get  a  vital,  abiding  unity. 
Only  a  godlike  genius  can  do  that  sort  of  thing. 

Rawlins  (lost  in  his  own  thought).  And  look  at  what  the 
movement  does  to  trade!  Do  you  like  to  see  our 
good  cloth  going  up  in  smoke,  eh?  We'll  be  ruined 
if  these  confounded  spinning  wheels  keep  on. 
Gandhi  must  have  gone  crazy  all  of  a  sudden,  and 
the  whole  country  with  him.  What  got  into  him, 
anyway?  Kept  his  head  during  the  Boer  scrimmage, 
all  the  head  you'd  expect  a  non-resistant  to  have, 
I  mean;  organized  an  ambulance  corps,  and  an 
effective  one.    Kept  his  head  during  the  War,  too. 

I64} 


When  our  troops  began  arriving  at  the  French  front 
in  1914,  there  was  Gandhi  with  his  ambulance 
corps.  Later  on  he  came  back  to  Bombay  and 
preached  about  the  caste  system,  taught  the  natives 
the  value  of  education,  loyalty,  kindness,  industry, 
that  sort  of  thing.  Fine!  Why  couldn't  he  have 
kept  it  up?  Great  help  to  the  Government.  But 
then  he  has  to  go  and  think  (Rawlins  sighs  deeply*), — 
and  think  about  the  Government;  and  pretty  soon  he 
thinks  himself  and  his  country  into  a  lot  of  trouble. 
He's  an  extremist,  that's  the  matter  with  him. 

Spark  (mischievously).  Ghandhi  and  his  country  aren't 
the  only  ones  in  a  lot  of  trouble.  Not  to  get  personal 
about  it,  there's  Montagu,  he's  out  all  right,  and 
Reading  to  follow  him  out  most  likely.  The  "law 
and  order"  crowd  are  baying  for  something  definite. 

Rawlins.   I  suppose  Derby  will  come  in, — 

Spark.  Bonar  Law,  I  should  think.  (Both  men  remain 
silent,  staring  in  front  of  them,  viewing  London  -politics.) 

Rawlins  (thoughtfully).  We're  a  long  way  from  the 
center  of  things,  John. 

(Enter  Miss  Edith  Adams,  a  missionary  about  40 
years  of  age,  cheerful,  genuine  and  efficient.  Both  men 
rise.    Miss  Adams,  greeting  them,) 

Miss  Adams.  I  can  only  stay  five  minutes,  Mr.  Rawlins. 
Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Spark.   I'm  on  my  way  to  the 

{65  J 


hospital,  but  since  I  was  bound  directly  past  your 
office  I  thought  I  would  be  postman  and  bring  you 
Abdullah's  letter  of  thanks  for  the  school  supplies. 
You  never  saw  a  happier  child. 

Rawlins  (reading  delightedly).  Fine!  Look  at  that, 
Spark.  It's  better  than  your  English  any  day.  You're 
doing  a  great  work  with  these  people,  Miss  Adams. 
I  never  knew  people  needed  it  worse. 

Miss  Adams.  They  have  wonderful  possibilities  when 
they  can  overcome  their  ignorance  and  superstition. 
(sighs) .  One  of  my  boys  told  me  a  legend  of  the  Mahat- 
mah  the  other  day, — the  Government  sending  an 
officer  to  kill  him,  the  officer  seeing  a  hundred- 
headed  figure  which  he  struck  at  with  his  sword  and 
succeeded  only  in  striking  off  his  own  head. 

Rawlins.  Bah!  They'd  rather  have  a  hundred-headed 
figure  than  a  real  man ! 

Spark  (whimsically).  They  follow  the  real  man,  though. 
They  merely  give  him  a  hundred  heads  to  honor  him. 
As  for  us,  we  present  him  with  a  convict  cell.  We'd 
rather  have  a  unified  Government  than  a  real  man, — 
and  I  think  we're  right.  We  all  have  our  preferences. 

Rawlins  (turning  to  Miss  Adams  a  little  anxiously).  You 
missionaries  don't  feel  that  we're  a  "satanic  Govern- 
ment," do  you,  Miss  Adams? 

{66  J 


Miss  Adams  (smiling).  Hardly.  Satan  would  never  help 
us  with  our  hospitals  and  schools.  They  are  not  in 
his  line  at  all.  And  politics  are  not  in  our  line  at  all. 
We  are  here  to  aid  the  people  toward  better  living 
and  to  give  them  a  knowledge  of  Christ. 

Rawlins.   So  you're  not  starting  spinning  wheels? 

Miss  Admas.   Oh,  no. 

Rawlins  (relieved,  naively).  I  hoped  you  would  feel  that 
way. 

Miss  Adams.    Did  you  doubt  it? 

Rawlins.  Well,  I  thought  you  might  think  miracles  and 
"persecution"  and  that  sort  of  thing  —  (stops,  rather 
confused).  I  thought  you  might  think  Gandhi  was 
a  —  a  holy  man  — 

Miss  Adams.  No  one  would  deny  his  being  a  holy  man  in 
many  respects.  But  I  at  least  feel  that  his  aim  is  mis- 
taken. These  people  are  not  ready  for  self-govern- 
ment,—  an  overturn  would  only  mean  their  exploita- 
tion by  their  own  corrupt  Indian  officials.  Besides 
that,  I  consider  Gandhi's  support  of  Mohammedan- 
ism unworthy.  It  would  ill  become  a  follower  of 
our  Lord,  Mr.  Rawlins,  to  forget  His  work  for  a 
political  movement.  His  Kingdom  is  not  of  this 
world.  And,  as  I've  already  said,  our  activities  are 
so  far  from  politics, — with  the  sick  and  the  old  and 
the  children  and  the  needy,  that  such  things  are 
hardly  more  than  words  to  us. 

(67) 


Rawlins.  That's  the  right  attitude.  Work  like  yours  is 
fundamental,  Miss  Adams.  I  shall  look  in  on  you 
Sunday  if  I  may,  in  time  for  the  children's  prayer 
service.  (Shaking  hands  heartily  and  watching  her 
down  the  road  as  she  departs).  That's  a  fine  school  of 
hers,  John,  a  fine  school.  An  inspiration.  Are  you 
headed  for  the  club? 

(Spark  nods).     I'll  come  along.     (The  two  leave  the 
office  together ',  and  start  once  more  on  politics). 

Rawlins.  Do  you  think  our  Welsh  wizard  is  going  to 
land  right  side  up  again  this  time? 


68 


The  Chinese  Dragon 
Soliloquizes 

r  HAD  a  coat,  embroidered,  in  dull  gold, 

■*■    With  sacred  letters,  linking  moon  and  star; 

With  cedars,  where  the  cliff  gave  little  hold; 

With  mandarin  and  roll  and  scimitar. 
Thereon  the  pious  son  stood  glorified, 

The  furnace  burned  with  ghostly  alchemy, 
The  river  reeds  made  poetry  of  their  pride, 

The  river,  jagged  as  lightning,  found  the  sea. 

My  new  coat  comes,  monotonously  gray, 

With  flume  and  chimney  stamped  thereon  in  black; 

Black  throngs  beneath  the  bulk  of  cannon  sway. 
It  would  be  rude  of  me  to  send  it  back. 

Coats  are  but  coats;  above  its  rags,  I  trust, 
I  shall  be  blinking  on  the  sun-hot  dust. 


1 69] 


The  Changing  Order 


Russia,  19 1 8 


"\  /TY  love  walks  under  bitter  skies, 
*^-*-    And  few  there  are  to  call  her  fair; 
There  is  presaging  in  her  eyes, 
And  there  is  blood  upon  her  hair. 

The  others  can  appraise  their  fate 
In  gold  or  trade  or  victory  won. 

She  has  a  pilgrimage  too  great 
For  any  gift  on  earth  to  crown. 

Past  graves  of  her  own  children  she 

Seeks  universal  peace  for  men. 
Past  her  unended  agony 

She  seeks  world  brotherhood  again. 

And  may  I  go  with  her  on  quest, 

With  her  through  hail  and  whirling  snow, 
To  find  not  hostelry  nor  rest, 

Only  the  insult  she  will  know, — 

Her  tears  upon  my  face,  her  dread 
Half-uttered  word  to  set  me  free, 

Her  hungering  to  give  me  bread, 
Her  homelessness  to  shelter  me! 

Dreamer  invincible  she  goes, 
And  where  her  feet  have  trod  I  seem 

{73} 


To  see  creation  that  uprose 
To  meet  the  courage  of  her  dream. 

My  love  walks  under  bitter  skies, 
And  few  there  are  to  call  her  fair; 

There  is  presaging  in  her  eyes, 
And  there  is  blood  upon  her  hair. 


I  74) 


Russia 

'"pHERE  is  a  nation  whose  far  destiny 
-*-  Is  written  on  the  slopes  of  evergreen, 
On  Ural  mountain  and  on  sun-hot  plain, 
On  hoary  tundra  and  on  gleaming  mine, 
And  on  the  Arctic  ocean,  that  embeds 
In  aeon-piled  ice  the  mastodon  — 
A  nation  that  shall  serve  infinitude 
Forever;  silences  and  holy  men 
And  deeds  of  terror  are  its  offering. 

The  land  is  set  between  the  east  and  west. 

The  act  of  Europe  and  the  Asian  dream 

Must  here  find  reconcilement.     East  and  west 

Age  after  age  in  its  fierce  heart  contend, 

With  tumult  and  with  splendor  and  with  wrong. 

There  is  no  other  nation  that  must  bear 

The  battle  of  the  irreconcilable; 

There  is  no  other  nation  with  a  birth 

Ancient  as  wandering  of  Tartar  hordes, 

New  as  the  wild  mare's  plunge  in  thawing  stream. 

The  mystery  enfolds  me  of  her  youth 

And  of  her  age.     I  think  the  jealous  god 

Whose  tears  are  everlasting  fire  laid 

This  one  in  trance,  with  fields  of  dazzling  snow 

For  barrier,  one  thousand  years;  and  there 

The  winds  bore  drift  of  dim  and  swathing  creeds 

And  peacock-winged  court  and  harvest  toil, 

And  strife  and  vain  invasion  and  slow  wrath, 

{75} 


Until  one  destined  hour  the  Revolution 

Rose,  as  the  sun,  to  wake  her.     She  came  forth, 

A  child  unchangeably,  yet  with  the  spell 

Of  centuries  upon  her;  she  came  forth 

To  find  world  brotherhood.     Ironic  fate 

Led  through  fraternal  slaughter, — and  she  looked 

Celestially  for  peace,  and  there  appeared 

No  visible  weapon  but  the  avenging  sword. 

Her  ways  of  pilgrimage  begin.     No  path 

Of  travail  known  to  man,  but  her  young  feet 

Shall  tread  thereon.     From  civil  battle-ground 

And  factory  and  famine-wasted  town 

And  altar  and  green  field  she  must  bear  sign 

And  symbol  of  the  experience  of  man 

Till  all  are  visited,  all  relics  brought 

Unto  a  secret  place,  when,  kneeling  down, 

She  shall  invoke  the  fire  of  heaven  thereon. 

The  fire  of  heaven,  kindling  them,  will  draw 

Unto  her  all  the  lowly  of  the  earth, 

And  stars,  beholding,  one  by  one  shall  stoop 

To  warm  their  hands  at  her  immortal  flame. 


{76} 


The  Russian  Revolution 

PART  I. 

PREMATURE  REVOLUTION 

1905-6 


Peasants 


Is  it  the  earth,  our  mother, 

Gives  stone  for  bread? 
No  —  by  the  will  of  another 

The  land  lies  dead. 
The  horse  and  the  plow  are  taken 

For  taxes'  yield, 
The  strength  of  our  sons  is  shaken 

On  the  foreign  field. 
Always  we  labor,  keeping 

Watch  on  earth's  heart, 
Always  from  hoped-for  reaping 

We  are  held  apart. 


Workmen 


Our  wretchedness  is  one, 

Crowded  in  barracks  where  a  man's  hopes  rot, 

Driven  like  beasts  of  toil,  though  we  have  not 

The  brute's  release  from  toil  when  sun  goes  down. 

Our  wretchedness  is  one, 

Bound  in  one  iron  tether. 

Now  let  our  cause  be  one. 

Let  us  all  march  together, 

To  tell  the  Father  Tsar  what  we  endure, 

To  beg  him  make  our  human  right  secure. 

{77} 


The  Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself^) 

I  seem  to  have  less  influence  on  this  mad 
But  active  planet  than  the  maddest  dream. 
Their  Little  Father  even  now  prepares 
The  Palace  guns  against  petitioning, 
Ere  he  remove  his  sacred  person  thence. 

Bloody  Sunday 

Under  the  all-beholding  sun, 

Moves  a  rapt  processional 

With  solemn  banners  and  with  chant  reiterate. 

The  priest  Gapon  leads  them  on. 

And  now  they  pass  the  Winter  Palace  gate 

Where  murder  hides  in  state. 

The  sudden  volleys  fall 

Into  the  unarmed  crowd  that  tries,  too  late, 

To  flee  and  to  escape.     The  self-same  death 

That  turns  white  snow  to  red 

Wakes  in  the  workers  with  relentless  breath 

The  dread  god  slumbering  there. 

No  more  they  will  be  led, 

No  more  to  government  implore  and  kneel. 

Within  themselves  they  feel 

The  strength  by  which  they  shall  endure  and  dare. 

Bureaucrats 

Though  bombs  remove  Bobrikoff  and  Von  Plehve 
And  Sergius  to  the  more  ordered  realm 
Administered  by  the  Omnipotent, 

{78  j 


Though  we  pay  more  in  treasure  and  in  blood 

For  the  annihilation  of  our  arms* 

Than  others  pay  for  victory,  let  us  hope. 

The  revolutionists  are  with  us  still. 

Torture  and  pogrom,  knouting  and  arrest, 

Stripping  and  flogging  schoolboy  and  schoolgirl 

For  liberal  opinion  may  continue 

Beneath  Witte's  sway,  with  the  accompaniments 

Espionage,  speech-twisting,  letter-opening, 

Where  a  man's  daily  acts  become  his  trail, 

By  which  we  hunt  the  quarry  unto  death. 

Workmen 

Our  power  manifest 

That  links  the  east  and  west, 

Our  power,  diffused  in  wealth  and  heat  and  light, 

Ever  leaves  us  more  driven  and  dispossessed. 

Now  let  it  draw  within  its  slumberous  might, 

And  fold  its  arms,  and  rest. 

Now  let  us  watch  east  sundering  from  west, 

And  watch  when  motion  and  when  light  have  ceased 

Impassively,  until 

Earth  is  left  barren  by  our  ebbing  will. 

General  Strike 

Lights  disappear  in  cities;  fires  flare  out; 
Factory  wheels  are  fixed;  shops  stare  blank-eyed 
On  railways  of  the  Empire  paralyzed. 
Judges  no  longer  judge,  nor  lawyers  plead; 


*in  the  Russo-Japanese  War 

{79} 


Teachers  and  clerks  flood  out  the  vast  inertia. 

No  mails  arrive;  no  messages  can  pass 

The  riven  wires.     The  vague  multitude 

Waits  formlessly,  as  though  the  god  whose  breath 

Exhaled  light,  swiftness  and  the  gorgeous  towns, 

Repenting  his  creation,  wholly  drew 

His  breath  back  to  his  being,  and  the  light, 

And  gorgeous  towns,  and  swiftness,  wholly  ceased. 

Only  the  students,  flashing  eagerly, 

Torches  of  change,  along  the  darkened  streets, 

Summon  the  crowds  to  unaccustomed  halls 

And  there  instruct  them,  silent,  strangely  waiting — 

October  Manifesto 

Over  the  breathless  chaos  sounds  a  word. 

Is  it  the  word  we  have  awaited  long? 

Within  the  Tsar's  own  promise  is  averred 

Freedom  of  body  and  of  speech,  and  wrong 

Ended, — the  Duma  finally  in  sight. 

Dare  we  believe  that  wind  of  spring  has  stirred 

From  out  the  bitter  night? 

If  this  be  madness  let  us  go  mad  then, 

Under  the  red  flag  meet  and  cheer  and  kiss, 

And  look  not  down,  lest  the  unchanged  abyss 

Yawn  at  our  feet  again! 

The  Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through ,  talking  to  himself^) 

The  wind  of  spring,  devoted  dreamers?    Spring 
Followed  by  searing  summer  and  red  fall, 
And  winter,  frozen  on  the  frozen  grave. 

{80} 


Even  now,  if  but  you  listen,  you  can  hear 
The  shrieks  of  massacre, — pogroms  again 
In  KiefF  and  in  Warsaw,  peculiar  fruit 
Of  Government  repentance .     (Exit) 

Bureaucrats 

We  have  crammed  them  full  with  words, — now  for 

the  deed. 
Let  priests  stir  up  the  drunken  populace 
To  slaughter  Jew  and  intellectual. 
Let  prison  close  on  labor  leader,  student, 
Editor,  all  that  stir  the  brew  of  thought, — 
The  doors  of  night  swing  wide  enough  for  all. 
Fling  the  police  about  the  people's  meetings, 
Greet  them,  emerging,  with  the  knout  or  whip. 
Bombard  the  most  obstreperous  committee. 
Show  the  rejoicing  fools  that,  every  path 
Of  lawful  change  blockaded,  their  sole  hope 
Rests  upon  violence.     Let  Revolution 
Be  brought  forth  prematurely  by  our  hand, 
That  it  may  prematurely  die.     When  law 
Has  quelled  the  anarchy,  we  may  appeal, 
Civilization's  champions,  abroad, 
For  gold,  to  bolster  up  the  tottering  throne. 

Peasants 

Over  the  death-white  scene, 

Through  woods  of  birch  and  woods  of  evergreen 

The  sledges  throng. 

Woe  for  the  landlord's  dwelling! 

{8iJ 


The  roaring  flames  unto  the  sky  are  telling 
An  end  of  patient  sufferance  of  wrong. 

City  Revolutionists 

Words  are  but  wind  from  hell  or  heaven, 

Small  aid  against  torment  and  prison  cell. 

Reaction  rolls,  more  black,  more  horrible 

For  respite  given, 

Upon  the  weary  land. 

Is  it  in  vain  the  whole  strife  has  been  striven? 

Shall  no  one  raise  up  an  avenging  hand? 

The  strikers  must  be  forced  back  soon,  unless 

The  strike  and  Revolution  can  unite, 

And  both  together  smite 

Terror,  that  only  terror  can  redress. 

It  is  no  time  to  balance  words,  to  bow 

With  long-since-proven  vain  petitioning. 

The  hour  lifts  up  the  torch,  a  signalling 

To  us,  that  we  rise  now. 

Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself^) 

I  must  congratulate  myself  that  I 
Do  not  ride  horseback,  like  an  officer. 
These  wire  entanglements  and  barricades, 
Set  tortuous  through  the  city,  might  surprise 
The  fiercest  galloper;  and  when  my  mount 
Had  flung  me,  it  would  be  small  consolation 
That  my  last  vision  was  the  red  flag,  waved 
Over  a  barricade.     Suppose  I  stay  — 
Since  earth  will  never  hear  me  I  can  stalk 

(8i  j 


Unscathed  through  danger  manifold  —  and  sum 

The  powers  the  Revolution  has  opposed. 

On  one  side,  wire  entanglement,  as  before 

Said,  on  the  other,  baffled  cavalry. 

On  one  side  ill-fed  students,  boys  and  girls, 

The  Tsar's  resplendent  armies  fronting  them. 

Revolver  against  case  shot  and  shrapnel, 

Machine  gun  and  percussion  bomb.     I  must 

Commend  from  my  invisible  recess 

The  Government's  complete  democracy 

In  shooting, —  here  a  cook  and  there  a  clerk, 

A  housewife,  doctor,  or  a  bystander, 

Or  foreign  correspondent;  buildings  have 

More  casualties  than  the  combatants, 

Save  the  church  tower  of  the  Strestnoi,  where 

His  sharpshooters  rain  down  upon  the  crowd 

The  Tsar's  most  holy  wTill,  in  wounding  death. 

I  need  no  more  delay.     The  youngsters  make 

A  splendid  gesture  in  the  teeth  of  doom.     (Exit). 

Bureaucrats 

The  prisoners  one  by  one  fall  to  our  hand, 

The  barricades  are  hewn  down.     Law  and  order 

Resume.     The  bodies,  bayonetted,  shot, 

On  sledges  heaped  for  general  burial, 

No  more  make  insurrection.     Now  we  turn 

Attention  to  the  peasant.     Scourge  and  shoot, 

Burn  down  his  home  about  his  lawless  head, 

In  punitive  forays!     We  hope  to  make 

With  mark  of  blood  some  impress  on  a  mind 

{83} 


Unprintable  as  ocean  otherwise. 
Workers  began  the  anarchy,  and  workers 
Now  hold  the  last  redoubt.     Ten  thousand  hold 
The  Presna  hills.     The  fashionable  guard 
Flinging  a  cordon  round  the  district,  train 
Their  battery  on  flimsy  cottages 
That,  taking  fire,  burn  the  inhabitants 
Within,  while  those  escaping  are  shot  down 
Along  the  river  bank.     The  jails  are  crammed. 
Torture  relieves  Monotony  of  guard 
At  times  therein.     More  prisoners  must  be 
Dispatched  with  noose  or  gun, — the  easier  fate,— 
The  rest  exiled,  where  madness  will  pursue 
Its  victims  through  barbaric  solitude. 
Again  the  land  lies  quiet.     We  may  turn 
To  Europe's  powers  now  with  our  request. 

Revolutionists 

Child  of  our  blood  and  of  our  sacrifice 

Is  born  the  Duma,  in  young  hardihood. 

Within  the  Winter  Palace,  that  has  stood, 

Unmoved,  the  tyrant's  pomp  and  people's  cries, 

Gather  our  representatives,  to  save 

The  state  that  lowly  lies. 

The  prisoners  across  the  Neva  wave 

From  cells  a  greeting  to  the  future  years. 

But  little  of  our  toil  or  triumphing 

Is  that  which  to  the  despot's  eye  appears, 

Blind  to  the  streams  that,  moving  underground 

In  darkness,  without  sound, 

{84i 


Join  other  streams  upon  their  sunless  way, 
Until  the  flood  burst  forth  in  open  day. 
Though  our  lives  end  in  exile  and  in  cell, 
Though  fate  our  children's  lot  may  not  assuage, 
Binding  with  force  well-nigh  intolerable 
Upon  their  youth  the  self-same  heritage, 
We  know  and  we  proclaim  that  all  is  well. 
Against  its  will,  winter  must  bring  forth  spring. 

Bureaucrats 

France,  Germany  and  England  grant  our  loans; 

Civilization  thus  repays  her  debt 

To  us,  for  promptness  in  upholding  law. 

The  tottering  throne  may  now  be  stabilized. 

The  gold  we  shall  be  competent  to  pour 

Like  molten  gold  of  legend,  down  the  throat 

Of  the  bold  Duma,  grown  too  eloquent, 

Choking  its  breath.     Our  unchanged  armory 

Of  methods,  crude  and  terrible  perhaps, 

Against  a  people  terrible  and  crude, 

We  shall  employ,  their  worth  proved  once  again: 

No  unions  countenanced;  espionage, 

Drink,  ignorance  and  chastisement  our  aids. 

To  each  aspiring  patriot  shall  be  given 

Torment  of  knowing,  to  the  subtlest  point, 

What  must  be  done,  without  the  means  to  act, 

Till  spirit,  frozen,  dies,  and  we  abide 

Quiet  as  winter  on  a  quiet  grave. 


{85} 


INTERLUDE 

1910 
One  Bureaucrat  to  Another 

Night-flitter,  you  upon  the  dreamer's  chest 
Sucking  the  slow-drawn  breath,  what  of  the  night? 

Bureaucrat 

The  dreaming  nation  merely  moans  in  sleep. 
Snow  falls  —  snow  falls  —  the  numbing  snow  — 

1914 
One  Bureaucrat  to  Another 
What  of  the  night? 

Bureaucrat 

I  scarcely  know.     I  think 

The  nation  stirs.     Can  any  wakening 

Be  possible,  after  so  long  a  sleep? 

Wizards  of  darkness,  we  must  summon  forth 

A  dream  more  terrible  than  any  past, 

Of  deeper  thralldom  and  of  deadlier  spell, 

Half-shaped  already  out  of  secret  hate, 

To  hold  her  from  awakening  — World  War  — 

Whence,  dreaming,  she  may  pass  from  sleep  to  death. 

1914-17 
(With  increasing  disquietude) 

Is  this  the  dream  we  summoned?  Mightier  thought 
Than  our  thought,  overbearing  our  thought,  wrests 
The  dream  from  our  control,  shapes  it  at  will  — 

{86} 


PART  II. 

POLITICAL  REVOLUTION 
MARCH,  1917 

Bureaucrats 

We  do  not  trust  the  fumes  that  this  World  War, 

Stark  feet  upon  the  earth,  is  spurting  forth. 

From  soldiers,  charging,  armed  with  rake  or  stick 

Against  artillery;  from  armies,  trapped 

In  the  Masurian  marsh,  where  crushed  men  made 

A  living  road  for  gun  wagons  else  mired 

To  cross  on,  and  munitions  never  came, 

Sidetracked  some  hundred  miles  behind  the  line 

By  certain  landowners  who  took  the  train, 

A  sentiment  arises  that  can  bode 

Small  good  to  us.     The  War  has  gone  too  far, 

Autocracy  against  autocracy. 

Most  true  that  military  secrets  can 

Slip  through  to  Prussia,  as  SukhomlinofF 

Proves,  that  appropriations  for  the  War 

In  civil  pockets  nestle  downily,^ 

That  bribes  to  keep  the  army, unprepared 

Are  wasted  not, —  yet  it  has  gone  too  far. 

The  ancient  Cossack  force,  the  throne's  watch  dog, 

Is  in  its  grave;  the  new  force,  by  the  hand 

Of  Zemstvos  fed,  looks  warily  on  us. 

The  nobles  fall  away.     Rasputin's  corpse 

Bears  witness  to  their  keen,  confederate  swords. 

r  87} 


One  way  remains  to  end  domestic  strife 
And  foreign  conflict  at  the  self-same  stroke. 
Let  Protopopoff  (blessed  by  the  Dark  Monk 
Whose  spirit  in  the  palace  hisses  intrigue 
Still  for  our  solace),  make  the  people  rise. 
Store  up  the  food,  let  hunger  pinch  the  towns, 
Muzzle  the  press,  stir  up  the  factory  hands, 
Set  peasant  against  Jew,  give  the  police 
Machine  guns,  to  cut  down  the  restless  mobs. 
The  Allies  will  release  us  from  our  pledge 
For  strife  within  the  border;  we  can  bring 
The  army  from  the  front,  by  the  same  move 
Abandoning  a  war  too  perilous 
And  drowning  discontent  at  home  in  blood. 


Soldiers 


Why  must  we  stand,  knee-deep  in  filth  and  mire, 
Waiting  some  petty  tyrant's  word  to  fire, 
While  the  days  meant  for  plowing  fields  go  by 
O'er  us,  that  know  not  why  we  fight  or  die? 


Intelligenzia 

Our  mind  is  set  on  victory;  on  us  rests 

Responsibility  the  Government 

Disowns, — relief,  hospital,  clothing,  food, 

Care  for  the  peasant,  and  at  every  turn 

The  Government  betrays  us  —  for  how  long? 

{88} 


Peasant 

The  earth  is  mine. 

The  same  sun  makes  us  shine. 

The  same  rain  turns  us  black. 

Where  I  have  bent  my  back, 

Where  the  furrows  go, 

The  earth  is  mine. 

The  good  Lord  willed  it  so. 

He  ought  to  know. 

City  People 

We  wait  in  queues  till  sunset  dies  and  bitter  night 

comes  on, 
In  queues  beneath  exhausted  dawn  and  the  cold 

noonday  sun, 
For  what  has  failed  ere  the  line's  end  to  this,— 
Promise  —  and  nothingness !     Are  we  such  fools? 
We  shall  not  wait  forever.     Hunger  rules. 
Break  the  shopwindows !     Take  what  food  there  is ! 

Bureaucrats 

Well  played  so  far.     The  people  cry  for  bread, 
Workers  are  pouring  out  of  factories. 
Now  to  dissolve  the  Duma,  and  to  place 
The  city  under  martial  law.     The  same 
Ingredients  to  hand  as  twelve  years  past, 
The  same  brew  shall  abominably  boil, 
For  rebels  to  drink  deep  of  desolation. 

I89) 


Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself^) 

"The  same  ingredients?* '     Examine  well, 

My  savage  cook !     I  squander  breath;  I  pass.     (Exi  t) 

People 

The  hour  is  come.     Out  to  the  street!    As  well 
To  die  on  Cossack's  and  on  soldiers'  sword 
As  of  starvation!    Out  into  the  street! 

Intelligenzia 

The  hour  is  come!     Students  stream  forth,  and  blend 

With  the  dark  crowd  that,  like  men  called  from  sleep 

By  a  command  too  wild  to  comprehend, 

Too  mighty  to  resist,  is  gathering, 

And  moving  onward  —  now  it  pauses  —  now 

It  moves  —  it  slowly  moves  — 

Bureaucrats 

The  world  tips  upside  down.     Dissolve  the  Duma? 

The  Duma  will  not  be  dissolved.     The  Cossacks 

Wave  whips  in  empty  air,  guide  harmlessly 

Their  horses  through  the  vast  and  cheering  crowds. 

The  maddest  dream  of  revolutionists, 

Who  paid  their  lives  for  it  twelve  years  ago, 

Embodied  rides  the  street  of  Petersburg. 

The  Cossacks  and  the  people  fraternize! 

The  soldiers  mustered  out  refuse  to  charge. 

Officers  ordering  otherwise  are  shot. 

The  leaderless  Volynski  Regiment 

{90} 


Goes  over  to  the  people.     Now  the  Guards 
On  whom  we  reckoned  —  now  the  regiment 
Sent  to  suppress  the  Guards.     The  Kronstadt  fleet 
Has  joined  the  Revolution.     Like  a  river 
Rolling  in  flood  it  bears  our  forces  down, 
Save  the  police,  that  climb  above  it  still 
And  from  the  housetops  scatter  furtive  death. 
And  now  the  mob,  army  and  people,  move 
Onward.     They  overcome  the  guards,  they  seize 
The  Arsenal.     And  now  there  comes  a  shout 
As  at  the  Resurrection  when  friends  meet 
And  death  is  past.     The  crowd  has  forced  the  jails. 
The  Peter  and  Paul  Fortress  slowly  swings 
Open.     The  prisoners,  yet  dazed,  come  forth. 
They  take  the  Schluesselburg.     The  archives  flame, 
(Some  ancient  secrets  going  safe  in  air). 
The  headlong  motor  lorries  and  red  flags 
And  fire  are  garments  of  a  world  consumed, 
Our  world  consumed.     Till  it  rise,  phoenix-like, 
As  well  may  chance,  it  will  be  feasible 
For  us  to  vanish  quietly  awhile. 

Revolutionists 

Can  it  be  possible?    Can  victory 
Be  won,  at  so  small  cost  of  strife  and  blood? 
We  thought  the  rising  tide  would  beat  against 
An  Empire  carved  in  rock-strong  cruelty. 
At  the  first  impact  of  the  advancing  wave 
The  structure  crashes,  hollowed  out  within, 
Crumbling  to  nothingness  before  our  eyes. 

{91 J 


The  people  rule.     The  students  in  the  throng 
Keep  order,  since  the  brute  police  are  slain. 
They  pour  provocateur  wine  down  the  street. 
One  after  one,  like  gray  rats  from  their  holes, 
The  leaders  of  reaction  crawl,  to  give 
Themselves  unto  the  mercy  of  that  power 
They  starved  and  hounded,  tortured  and  denied, 
Sukhomlinov  the  traitor  last.     Kerensky, 
Flinging  himself  between  him  and  the  crowd 
That  clamors  for  his  life,  begs  Revolution 
To  take  no  stain  of  ancient  evil  past. 
The  Tsar,  weak  shadow  of  departed  wrong, 
Without  note  vanishes,  the  people's  will 
Sweeping  the  Duma  on  to  a  republic. 
Now  soon  a  thrilling  sound  is  audible, — 
Ten  thousand  sledges  racing  over  snow, 
Before  the  ice  melts,  into  Russian  land. 
Out  of  Siberia  the  exiles  rush 
To  the  fulfillment  that  redeems  lost  years. 
Voices  are  loosed  as  though  Babel  had  found 
One  speech,  and  that  speech  liberty. 

Spirit  of  Revolution 

Brother,  again  the  Word, 

The  holiest  thing  on  earth,  is  heard, 

Free  as  a  bird  in  ecstasy. 

The  troops  that  bore  the  tyrant  yoke, 

The  crowds  that  knew  the  Cossack  stroke, 

Are  locked  in  one  fraternity. 

Christian  and  Jew  alike  unbind 


The  night-forged  fetters  of  the  mind, 

Oppressor  and  oppressed  are  gone 

In  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

For  we  have  found  at  last  the  thing 

That  set  creation  travailling, 

And  its  name  is  liberty. 

Brother,  is  there  an  evil  done 

Unto  your  mother  or  your  child? 

I  name  them  even  as  my  own. 

Islanded  in  the  flood  of  War, 

The  whirlpool  sounds  unreal  and  far; 

And  near  the  dawn,  that  laughs  in  sacred  mirth, 

Before  it  spread  abroad,  to  kindle  all  the  earth! 

Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself^) 

If  the  Word,  children,  turns  stone  into  bread, 

Ice  into  fuel,  nothing  into  trains, 

It  will  indeed  merit  your  utmost  praise.     (Exit). 


UPON  THE  FIELD  OF  MARS 

Remember  those  who  died  before  the  dawn, 

The  generation  after  generation 

Who  aimed  their  blows  against  enthroned  wrong 

And,  failing,  trod  the  road  of  desolation, 

Faltering  not. 

Remember  them  in  terror  and  in  truth, 

The  guerdon  of  their  youth 

Assault  and  madness,  torment,  suicide. 


(  93  i 


Their  latest  breath  was  drawn 

Before  a  hint  of  light  was  on  the  skies. 

They  died  in  darkness,  and  their  eager  eyes 

Saw  vermin-blotted  walls,  and  dead  that  did  not  rise. 

Remember  them!    They  conquered  though  they  died. 

When  all  on  earth  was  dark 

They  wrested  from  gods'  wrath  the  living  spark, 

Consigning  it  in  danger  and  disguise 

Unto  the  toiler, — in  his  care  it  lies, 

The  sky-born  flame  leaps  up  the  sky  in  light. 

They  paid  with  more  than  mortal  agonies 

For  a  defiance  that  is  infinite. 

Upon  the  Field  of  Mars  commemorate 

Not  those  alone  who  fell  when  final  pride 

Of  Revolution  made  them  justified, 

But  all  that  named  its  name  to  hopeless  fate. 

Remember  those  who  died  before  the  dawn! 


One  Peasant  To  Another  (jn  a  remote  village) 

We  are  free,  neighbor.     Do  you  hear,  neighbor, 

We  are  free! 

All  of  God's  creatures. 

Now  let  us  loose  the  fish, 

Last  night's  catch,  from  the  seine. 

The  freedom  comes  for  all. 

The  land  is  ours,  at  last. 

Why  does  the  city  not  send  word  to  us 

The  land  is  ours,  at  last? 


{94} 


Soldiers 


Why  must  we,  doomed  alone, 

When  all  the  land  rejoices  in  new  birth, 

Starve,  or  be  slaughtered,  in  our  trench  forgotten? 

Why  obey  longer?    Are  our  officers 

Not  now  our  equals?    We  no  more  salute. 

I  see  the  soil  that  needs  us,  and  I  see 

The  waiting  eyes  of  horses.     Even  now 

The  folk  divide  the  land  while  we  die  here. 

Peace,  peace!    Too  long  in  coming! 


Kerensky 


Am  I  an  alchemist,  that  I  can  make 

Triumphant  metal  out  of  opposites? 

The  Worker's  Council  and  the  Duma  draw 

Ever  more  wide  apart.     Each  one  desires 

What  most  the  other  loathes.     How  reconcile 

Demands  for  peace  and  war,  the  recompense 

To  landlords  with  the  peasant  clamoring 

For  ownership  without  a  compromise? 

Between  the  extremist  and  the  moderate 

Lies  quaking  ground  that  slowly  splits  asunder 

And  there  yawns  the  abyss.     I  give  day,  night, 

Health  and  security  to  fill  it;  soon 

It  will  close  grimly  over  my  own  head. 

Meanwhile  the  soldiers  chafe,  the  extremists  shake 

Popular  confidence,  the  Allies  keep 

The  silence  of  the  grave  upon  their  aims, 

The  German  agents  wag  tongue  undeterred. 

{95} 


How  check  disintegration?    Gag  the  press, 
Prevent  discussion,  ban  the  Bolsheviks 
As  traitors  to  the  state,  refill  the  jails, 
String  up  the  counter-revolutionists? 
The  Revolution  duplicates  the  Tsar! 
Never!    As  soon  as  freedom  is  outcast, 
Tyranny  dons  the  hollow  mask  of  law. 
Let  it  be  said  we  honored  liberty! 

Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself) 

Another  obstacle  occurs  to  me 

That  I'll  not  mention  to  a  Government 

Sufficiently  provisional,  harassed 

Sufficiently  already.     Prison  bars 

And  solitary  cell  are  not,  perhaps, 

The  best  of  schools  for  solidarity. 

Inevitable  unison,  the  pull 

As  one  force,  all  together,  can  alone 

Shove  out  their  ship  of  state  from  rocky  shoals, — 

One  certain,  driving,  elemental  power.  .  .  .   (Exit) 

Peasants 

When  shall  we  have  the  land?    Will  city  folk 
Never  cease  wrangling?    We  shall  keep  our  grain 
Till  they  come  to  their  senses.     Why  should  we, 
Laboring  from  dawn  to  dark,  give  of  our  toil, 
While  clothing  and  machines  that  are  our  due 
Come  not  from  them,  while  city  workers  stand 
Idle  in  city  streets  —  and  talk  —  and  talk? 

{96} 


Workers 

The  Revolution  fails  if  master  hands 
Reach  in,  to  steal  our  labor,  as  of  old. 
Give  us  the  factories,  the  mines,  the  mills! 

Soldiers 

Time  that  we  left  the  trenches,  and  came  home! 

Intelligenzia 

Is  honor  nothing  then?    Shall  Russia's  pledge 
To  Russia's  hard-pressed  Allies  be  forgotten? 
Fight  the  War  through  to  victory!     You  save 
The  Revolution  hourly  from  the  trench. 
Your  sisters  join  you.     Death's  Battalion  forms. 

Soldiers 

Where  is  dishonor  if  we  break  a  pledge 

Made  by  another?    Our  oppressor  pledged 

Our  blood  to  Europe's  rulers  graciously, 

Who  pledged  their  people's  blood  in  turn;  the  Tsar 

Is  gone,  and  the  Tsar's  war  should  follow  him. 

Why,  if  the  allied  aims  bear  openness, 

Do  they  keep  silence  utter  as  the  grave? 

And  the  Commission  from  America, 

From  a  free  land  to  its  free  sister,  what 

Does  this,  the  Root  of  privilege,  portend? 

We  shall  not  give  our  lives  for  rich  men's  gain. 

We  ask  a  peace  without  indemnity 

And  without  annexation,  signed  by  all. 

{97} 


Kerensky 

Now  in  the  darkness  each  one  seeks  his  own. 
The  Korniloff  uprising,  though  it  passed, 
A  thing  of  air,  yet  left  the  air  distraught. 
Smolney  dispersed  it,  and  now  Smolney  holds 
Power  supreme.     The  troops'  offensive  failed 
Down  all  the  line.     The  July  insurrection 
In  scattered  foam  reflects  the  wave  behind 
About  to  break.     Riga  is  fallen.     You 
That  heave  and  mutter  like  an  angry  sea, 
Have  patience  with  your  Government  awhile! 

Soldiers: 

It  has  not  given  us  peace. 

Peasants: 

It  has  not  given  us  land. 

Workers: 

It  has  not  given  us  bread.  In  hungry  queues 
We  shiver  nightly.     Let  the  armored  tanks 
That  rode  to  victory  once,  ride  forth  again, 
To  make  an  end  of  words ! 

Spirit  of  Realism  (^passes  through,  talking  to  himself^) 

Something  is  rising.     By  the  law  that  makes 

The  deep  to  move, 

Naked  and  elemental  as  the  tide 

It  beats  the  rock,  until  the  rock  gives  way. 


Soldiers 

Peasants 
Workers 


Peace,  land  and  bread. 
Peace,  land  and  bread. 
Peace,  land  and  bread. 
All  Power  to  the  Soviet! 

{98} 


PART  III. 

ECONOMIC  REVOLUTION 
NOVEMBER,  1917 


SPIRIT  of  REVOLUTION 

The  rich   and  the  -proud  shall  break,  and  the  old 

shall  die, 
The  toiler  shall  rule  the  towns  with   a  chastening 

rod, 
The  scythe   and  the   hammer   shall    rise    up   and 

glorify, 
And  the  child  be  God! 


Bolsheviks 

The  Smolney  is  an  arsenal;  the  fleet 

Justifies  change;  the  Red  Guards  hold  the  town; 

The  tanks  ride  forth  again;  out  in  the  bay 

A  cruiser  shells  the  Winter  Palace,  where 

The  government  waits  speedy  overthrow. 

The  Winter  Palace  is  surrendering. 

The  Woman's  Death  Battalion,  grounding  arms, 

Abandons  futile  guard.     One  after  one 

Kerensky's  cabinet  wearily  file  down 

Under  arrest.     There  is  no  looting  done, 

No  violence,  save  of  necessity, 

As  elemental  force  moves  from  its  place 

To  its  appointed  place.     The  power  swings 

Unto  the  proletariat.     The  sign 

{99} 


Of  that  dark  urge,  to  make  it  manifest, 
Our  swift  decree  accomplishes  two  deeds 
Of  simple  right,  at  which  all  Christendom 
Shall  howl  with  execration: — workers  have 
The  factories,  and  peasants  have  the  land. 
Now  Secret  Treaties,  out  of  archives  haled, 
Are  given  light.     The  workers  of  the  world 
Shall  see  what  Britain,  France  and  Italy 
With  the  old  Tsardom  bartered  for  their  blood. 
Russia,  the  mother  of  more  war-dug  graves 
Than  all  the  nations,  calls  them  all  to  peace. 

Intelligenzia 

Walking  your  traitorous  path  you  walk  alone. 

Do  you  suppose  our  youth  through  tortured  years 

Faced  exile,  dungeon,  madness  and  despair 

For  us  to  see  the  substance  of  our  hope, — 

Free  speech,  free  press,  assemblage  of  the  free, — 

Pledges  exchanged  with  people  of  free  lands, — 

Pierced  through  by  your  usurping  bayonets? 

Behold  the  nation's  delegates  dispersed 

By  no  Tsar's  hand,  by  your  own  bloody  hand! 

Ironic  banners  scattered  on  the  snow 

"Long  live  the  Master  of  the  Russian  Land" — * 

The  representative  assembly  wrecked 

For  which  you  clamored  when  you  first  seized  power. 

Take  warning, — we  are  training,  thought  and  skill. 

We  starve  before  we  aid  your  government! 


♦i.e.  the  Constituent  Assembly 

{100} 


Bolsheviks 


We  must  go  on  without  you  then.     The  power 
That  long  ago  gave  shelter,  light  and  food, 
Appears  now  to  give  law.     The  people's  will, — 
Oppose  it  or  support,  move  or  be  crushed. 
Dare  you  deny  we  are  its  furtherers? 
Look  at  the  host  streaming  from  Petrograd 
Against  the  advancing  Cossacks.     Factory  girls, 
Workmen,   some  armed  with  shovels,   half-grown 

boys, 
Soldiers  in  rags,  a  people's  army  vowed 
To  save  the  Revolution,  singing  march 
Hungry  and  cold  to  meet  their  dreadful  foe. 
At  Tsarskoe  Selso  and  Gatchina  they 
Turn  not  for  bullets.     Over  No  Man's  land 
They  plead  for  workers'  unity,  until 
The  Cossacks,  loath  to  sponsor  civil  war, 
Surrender.     (The  Intelligenzia, 
Persuaded  not,  resort  to  sabotage). 
We  must  go  on  unaided.     Soldiers  pore 
Laboriously  on  figuring  and  books, 
Sailors  with  more  exertion  than  they  use 
In  launching  ships,  play  keys  of  typewriters. 
Awkwardly  workingmen  plug  in  and  out 
Upon  the  switchboards  of  the  telephones. 
The  army,  starving  and  disintegrated, 
Cries  out  for  general  peace.     A  conference 
Between  Russia  and  Germany  is  planned 
At  Brest-Litovsk.     Our  representatives 
Have  more  experience  with  Siberian  cells 


Than  with  diplomacy,  but  such  a  cause, — 

World  peace, — needs  no  word-mincing.  All  the  allie  s 

Invited,  war  may  cease  on  every  front. 

Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself} 

The  guns  along  the  Russian  line  are  still. 

Jubilant  soldiers  tell  their  enemies 

To  go  home,  start  a  German  Revolution 

Like  theirs  —  they  speak  to  the  unwitting  teeth 

And  the  unwitting  claws  of  the  bright  beast 

That  will  make  love  unto  its  prostrate  prey 

When  the  striped  tiger,  mid-air  in  his  leap, 

Twists  him  about,  repentant,  to  eat  grass.    (Exit) 

Bolsheviks 

The  Germans  have  betrayed  us.     They  propose 
Peace  that  impresses  Austrian  monarchy 
On  Poland, —  Lithuania  and  Courland 
Mere  German  duchies  in  an  iron  ring. 
We  shall  not  ratify  a  shameful  peace! 
Let  us  refuse.     At  any  moment  now 
The  Revolution  breaks  in  Germany! 

Lenin  (inexorably) 

Comrades,  the  Russian  army  is  a  rout 
Of  famished  peasants  making  for  their  homes. 
What  arms  have  we  left  to  oppose  the  terms? 
Only  one  chance  remains.     We  have  appealed 

{ioxJ 


To  Paris,  London  and  to  Washington, 
With  word  to  the  Allies  if  they  send  aid 
We  will  refuse  to  ratify  the  peace. 

Messenger 

The  Germans  break  the  truce ;  their  ranks  advance 

Upon  the  Revolution.     They  have  seized 

Esthonia,  Dvinsk,  Werder  and  Lutsk. 

The  Red  Guards  are  outnumbered.     They  must  strike 

Not  only  German  legions,  but  the  troops 

Of  Kaledin  and  Korniloff,  and  force 

Of  the  Ukraine,  controlled  by  German  arms. 

Though  we  recaptured  Orsha,  it  postpones 

Defeat  but  for  an  instant.     They  advance. 

At  the  All-Russian  Soviet 

The  foe  is  thirty  miles  from  Petrograd. 
Already  bourgeoisie  within  the  town 
Hail  them,  rejoicing,  as  deliverers. 
No  answer  comes  from  the  Allies.     Perforce 
We  ratify.     Their  knees  are  on  our  chest. 

Spirit  of  Tolstoi  (unheedecP) 

Refuse  to  ratify!     Let  them  advance! 
The  ghostly  armies  of  deliverance  wait 
Upon  your  unarmed  might! 

Bolsheviks 

To  save  the  Revolution  we  must  sign. 

The  war  drains  life  too  sorely  needed,  where 

{-3} 


Reaction  through  the  city  creeps  again 

On  the  old  slimy  trails  of  drunkenness, 

Dissension,  murder,  spying  and  deceit, 

Where  the  new  world  of  discipline  and  work 

And  order  slowly  builds  on  motherhood 

Safeguarded,  shelter  adequate  for  all, 

And  children  fostered  as  the  nation's  pride. 

We  need  life  for  the  new  world ;  how  should  we 

Spill  life  in  war?    Nor  can  we  if  we  would. 

The  Old  Army  is  not.     The  Red  Guards  stand 

The  one  remaining  bulwark  of  defense. 

If  they  die  fighting  Germany  the  Tsar 

Returns  unchallenged.     If  this  peace  demand 

Surrendering  the  imperial  city,  we 

Surrender  Petrograd ;  if  it  demand 

Surrendering  the  holy  city,  we 

Surrender  Moscow,  to  the  Volga,  back, 

Forced  ever  back  (distance  is  infinite, 

It  swallowed  up  one  conquest)*  ever  back, 

Somewhere,  upon  some  strip  of  Russian  land 

We  shall  preserve  the  Revolution,  there 

Training  our  force  invincibly  to  sweep, 

Red  circling  flame,  about  its  priceless  hoard. 

And  so  we  sign,  at  one  stroke  cut  adrift 

From  friends  that  are  no  friends,  that  choose  to  see 

Russia  in  German  hands  before  they  aid 

The  workers'  rule.     So  be  it.     We  have  signed. 

Spirit  op  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself) 
I  almost  wish  my  years  had  made  me  deaf. 

*i.  c.  Napoleon's 

{  104) 


I  that  have  heard  all  noise  since  time  began 
Quail  at  the  roarings  that  reverberate 
From  Russia's  allies,  lest  they  burst  my  drums. 
Does  the  increasing  sound,  I  wonder,  mean 
Merely  increasing  temper,  or  approach? 

Messenger 

The  Revolution  breaks  in  Germany. 

Spirit  of  Realism 

Well,  pamphlet-printers,  are  you  satisfied? 

A  trifle  early  for  your  benefit 

You  dreamed  this  dream ;  fate  takes  her  precious  toll 

For  trying  to  anticipate  her  pace. 

Here  comes  your  dream,  too  late  for  saving  Russia. 

Russian  People 

Peace,  peace  at  last!     No  more  shall  refugees 

Descend  like  gray  disaster  on  the  towns, 

No  more  our  fields  be  stripped  to  nourish  death, 

No  more  our  straight  and  laughing  boys  be  turned 

To  heaps  of  rotten  clay.     Now  we  shall  bend, 

All  Russia  as  one  giant,  to  the  task 

Of  the  new  world, —  the  earth-strong  giant  bends 

Against  dawn  twilight  darkly,  without  tools. 

It  well  may  be  the  Allies  will  exchange 

Books,  engines,  tractors,  for  our  forest  wealth. 

Peace,  peace  at  last! 

{-5} 


Spirit  of  Realism  (^passes  through,  talking  to  himself^) 

Like  others  of  the  family,  your  hope 

Is  false.     Troops,  transports,  guns  and  poison  gas 

Will  be  the  allied  gifts.     Do  you  suppose 

Old  powers  will  not  strike  this  Titan  hand 

That,  seizing  earth,  down  to  the  deepest  mine 

Shakes  and  transforms?    The  measure  of  a  force 

Is  the  resistance  offered  it.     Your  dream, 

Dared  not  before  on  any  coast  of  light, 

Is  infinite;  your  suffering  will  be. 

The  powers  coalesce  in  earth  and  air 

Against  the  Revolution, —  deadly  shapes 

Of  fact  more  deadly  still. 

INTERVENTION 

*Steel  bayonets,  encircling  Russia,  drive 
Inward, —  the  hordes  of  Kolchak  from  the  east 
Across  Siberia ;  out  of  the  west, 
Finland  and  Lithuania ;  from  the  north, 
America,  France,  Britain ;  from  the  south 
The  tanks  and  aeroplanes  of  Denikin. 
Out  of  Esthonian  marshes,  Yudenich. 
Out  of  Crimea,  Wrangel's  cavalry.* 

The  Allies 

Famine  and  cold  fight  with  us.     We  blockade 

Ukrainian  wheatlands ;  oil  fields  of  Baku ; 

Turkestan  cotton ;  coal  mines  of  the  Don. 

Within  your  ears  your  dying  mothers'  groans 

And  dying  children's  plead  our  cause  to  you. 

We  keep  supply  trains  from  the  towns ;  we  keep 

The  passage  between  the  two  asterisks  is  taken  almost  verbatim  from 
Albert  Rhys  Williams'  "Through  the  Russian  Revolution". 

{106} 


From  waiting  furrows  Danish  seed  you  bought, 
Until  the  Revolution  on  its  knees 
Recant,  and  beg  admission  once  again 
To  civilized  councils. 

The  Church 

We  excommunicate  you.     We,  that  turned 
At  the  Tsar's  will,  your  earthly  life  to  hell, 
For  sin  prolong  the  doom  eternally. 

Bureaucrats 

You  think  us  dead.     Grant  that  we  are, —  a  law 
More  horrible  than  nature's  now  holds  sway. 
The  dead  have  power  to  breed ;  they  propagate 
Offspring  corrupted  as  themselves.     Damp  hate, 
Eyeless  betrayal,  tongueless  compromise, 
Greed,  savageness,  and  crawling  apathy, 
White  Terror,  born  within  the  tomb,  confront 
The  living  with  their  number,  who,  aghast, 
Are  pressed  on  all  sides  by  the  mouldering  dead. 
Still  the  disintegrations  bear  their  kind 
Until  their  progeny  may  well  efface 
The  living,  and  all  Russia  be  one  grave. 

The  Earth 

Words  move  me  not.     Dreams  move  me  not.     I  give 
Fruit  for  seed  given ;  when  within  my  breast 
Munitions  fall,  and  blood  and  bones  of  men, 
What  harvest  shall  I  bear?    Russia,  I  turn 

{xo7j 


Against  you,  for  your  sin  or  for  another's 

I  care  not.     Stone  my  heart  to  you  henceforth. 

Your  children  will  stretch  hands  to  me  in  vain. 

Disease 

Planner  of  cities  all  electrified, 
Planner  of  school  and  factory,  scientist 
In  freezing  room  wielding  your  instruments, 
Housewife  still  searching  desperate  for  bread, 
Engineer  gloating  on  canal  completion 
That  links  the  Volga  to  the  Baltic,  child 
And  artist,  clerk  and  teacher,  I  shall  call 
A  Soviet,  All-Russian,  of  my  own. 
Now  only  see  how,  breathed  on  by  my  breath, 
The  trained  mind  turns  blank  as  the  idiot's, 
The  husband  knows  no  more  the  wife ;  the  seer 
Of  cosmic  law  envisions  crawling  filth, 
Artist  like  beggar  gropes  on  empty  air. 

Spirit  of  Realism  Qpassing  through) 

All  things  speak  with  my  tongue.     I  may  be  still. 

Capitalism 

To  the  oppressed  in  other  lands  we  make 

Your  name  a  byword.     They  call  judgment  down 

Not  on  their  own  despoilers,  but  on  you. 

You  shall  be  loathed  by  those  you  would  set  free. 

The  terror  of  your  name  shall  bind  their  chains 

More  close. 


{108} 


Militarism 

You  think,  when  the  Red  Army  has  hurled  back 

Poland  and  Wrangel ;  Britain,  France,  Japan, 

Kolchak  and  Denikin  successively, 

When  the  world's  grip  is  loosed  from  Russia's  throat, 

The  flower  of  the  Soviet  slain  for  me, 

I  loose  my  hold?    In  sinew  and  in  nerve, 

In  habitude  of  murder  I  shall  live. 

Arrest,  court-martialling  and  censorship, 

Espial  and  police,  are  my  old  sauce. 

I  swallowed  up  each  Empire  in  turn 

Upon  the  earth,  and  still  have  appetite 

To  swallow  up  the  Red  Republic.     Here 

I  hover,  waiting  till  necessity  — 

Spirit  of  Realism  (passes  through,  talking  to  himself} 

Through  black  mist  and  through  mist  like  blood  I 

look 
And  see  not,  for  the  bulk  of  hostile  shapes, 
But  still  I  hear  the  sound  of  common  life 
Pursued  in  equity, —  the  ring  of  tools. 

Russian  People 

The  new  world  waits  our  hammering;  we  build. 


The  End 


